


Back to the Met

by katedf



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedf/pseuds/katedf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of Season 1, Richard is told that he can get his old job in London. But he has 2 hours to make the call. In this story, he is able to make the call, and he goes back to England. He meets old friends and an old foe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My New Year's Resolution is to get back to writing! I know I have stories to finish, but this one is in my head now, so I'm going to post it while it's fresh.

While Dwayne drove like a madman, Richard held his mobile up, trying to catch a signal. “No bars!” he grumbled. “Please please please, just give me a few bars.” 

They arrived at the hospital. Everyone sat on the verandah, waiting for Fidel to emerge with good news. Richard fidgeted. He had only 20 minutes left. He kept trying different positions, even leaning way out over the verandah railing, but he couldn’t get a signal. 

“Does anyone have anything?” he asked.

Commissioner Patterson looked at the screen of his mobile. Five bars. But he shrugged his shoulders, and Richard paced to the end of the verandah where the rest of the group sat.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, use mine!” said Camille, holding out her mobile.

“Thank you, Camille.” Richard ran to the far end of the verandah, away from the group, and placed the call. Just as he finished, Fidel came out, all smiles.

“It’s a girl!” The team swarmed around Fidel, offering their good wishes. 

“Can we see her?” asked Camille.

“Of course. Come on inside.” Camille, Catherine, and Dwayne followed Fidel inside. Richard stood at the far end of the veranda. The Commissioner walked toward him.

“So? Did you make the call?”

“Yes, just barely in time. I’m going home.”

“Well, then,” said the Commissioner. “I’m going to have to find a replacement.” He took out his mobile and placed a call. Richard looked surprised, then realized that the Commissioner had tried to pull yet another fast one when he pretended not to have a signal. Richard shook his head in disgust and walked away.

“Richard!” Camille walked onto the veranda. “Don’t you want to see the baby?”

“Oh, uh, yes, sure. Here’s your mobile. Thank you for lending it to me.”

“What was so important that you had to call right away?”

“I had to call London. I’m going home.” Richard walked inside where the others were cooing over a tiny bundle wrapped in a pink blanket. He felt a twinge of regret when he looked at the group. He had enjoyed the work part of Saint Marie. But he would get over that when he got to London.

Camille watched Richard walk into the building. He looked at the baby, congratulated Fidel, but even as he talked with the group, he was apart from them. He had never really fit in. It was probably for the best that he was leaving.

At the other end of the veranda, Commissioner Patterson was still on his call. “I know he’s a DCI, but he’s here.”

Pause

“It makes sense. The woman he’d been following is dead. His assignment is at an end. So to my way of thinking, that makes him available.”

Pause

“As soon as Inspector Poole is ready to leave.”

Pause

“Yes, I do think it will be that soon. I’m sure he will love it here! Thank you.”

-o-o-o-o-

Detective Chief Inspector Chris Ricketts looked at the caller ID. The Met was calling, probably to tell him the arrangements for his trip home.

“Ricketts.”

Pause

“What?”

Pause

“Are you joking?” He dropped into the armchair in his hotel room. “There’s already a DI here. They don’t need me.”

Pause

“When? Really? And so just because I happen to be here when he gets his get-out-of-hell card, I have to stay here?”

Pause

“Can I appeal this?”

Pause

“SIX MONTHS? MAYBE A YEAR?”

Pause

“Yes, I understand, sir. Thank you for taking the time to call me.”

Chris Ricketts ended the call and swore. Then he raided the minibar.


	2. Chapter 2

Superintendent Len Bancroft of the Bow Street Police Station checked his email. Well, that was a surprise. He was happy to get an extra detective, but hadn’t expected one. There was a hiring freeze, so where did this guy come from? He read more, and learned that Detective Inspector Richard Poole had spent the last ten months on assignment in the Caribbean.

Bancroft looked out the window. The trees in front of the Royal Opera House were losing their leaves. Soon it would be cold. He wondered if he could get himself assigned to a station in a tropical paradise. How did this Poole fellow swing such a plum assignment? And why did he want to give it up? He opened Poole’s file and scanned it. It all seemed straightforward. But people were more likely to be candid on the phone than in an email or on paper. So Bancroft checked a time zone map and made a call.

_“Patterson here.”_ Commissioner Patterson answered his phone.

“Good morning, Commissioner. I’m Superintendent Len Bancroft from the Met. Richard Poole is being sent to my group. You’ll be asked for a formal evaluation for his personnel file. But I’d like a quick comment, if you’d be so kind.”

_“Certainly, Superintendent. I am sorry to lose him. He’s a dedicated, intelligent investigator. He was homesick and uncomfortable in the heat, but he never let that distract him from doing a good job.”_

Next, Bancroft called Croyden Police Station.

_“Superintendent Graves”_

“Graves, Bancroft from Bow Street here. I’m about to get a new addition to my team, a DI who used to be one of yours, Richard Poole.”

_“Ah, yes, Poole.”_

Bancroft noticed that Graves sounded far less enthusiastic than Patterson had been. “I was wondering if you’d give me an idea of what he’s like, help be figure out how best to use him on my team.”

_“He’s well educated, knows the damnedest things. Detail oriented to a fault. Bit of a pain in the arse, actually. Can be insightful at times, plodding at others. But he does get the job done. I thought he was in the Caribbean. Did they send him home?”_

“No, he sent himself home. Apparently, he didn’t like the heat and the sand. Frankly, an assignment to a small island sounds pretty good to me. But to each his own. Anything else you can tell me?”

_“If this were a school conference, I’d have to say that he doesn’t work and play well with others. He’s a loner, never really fit in with the group. We have a fairly happy station here, and he never was one of the boys, you know? Find him a patient partner, because he can drive a partner mad with his attention to details. Any details. All details, pertinent or not. He needs to cross every t and dot every i. But scrupulously honest and fair.”_

-o-o-o-o-

For the first and last time, Richard decided to go out for a drink with his team. Fidel begged off, staying with Juliet and the baby. Dwayne and Camille accompanied Richard to Catherine’s bar. Richard was more animated than they’d ever seen him.

“Bow Street, can you believe it? What history it has! Bloody fantastic!”

“What is Bow Street?” asked Dwayne.

“It’s the first police station in London. It’s where the Runners were started,” Richard looked at Dwayne, who seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. “Bow Street Runners? You haven’t heard of them? They were the first detective force. Henry Fielding and later his brother John Fielding were magistrates that the runners worked for.”

“Fielding? Why is that name familiar?” asked Camille. “I mean other than as police or magistrates.”

“Henry Fielding wrote _Tom Jones._ ”

“Ah,” said Dwayne, “Excellent movie, very funny.”

Richard sighed, “But the point is not the book or the movie. It’s that I’m going to work in the historical epicenter of policing. It’s like … I don’t know, what is the best possible place you’d want to work?”

“Here,” said Camille. “It’s home.” Dwayne nodded.

They finished their beers and said their goodbyes.

“It’s been good, Chief,” said Dwayne. “We’ll miss you. Do you know who the new Chief will be?”

Richard smiled, “The king is dead, long live the king.”

Camille rolled her eyes, “Well, life will have to go on here, even if you leave us. I know you weren’t happy here. I hope you enjoy being back in London.”

“Thank you Camille. All the best to all of you. Good night.”

Richard walked back to his beach shack. It wouldn’t take long to pack, as he hadn’t acquired many possessions. He boxed up some books and other items he wouldn’t need right away. He packed his suitcase, leaving out just the few things he’d need the next morning. The lizard ran up onto his desk. It looked around as if it noticed that the surface was empty.

“Sorry, I can’t take you with me. But I’ll leave a dish out under the trees. It will catch rainwater for you. And, Lord knows, there are insects aplenty for you to eat.”

-o-o-o-o-

The taxi collected Richard and took him to the airport the next morning. He checked in and headed for the security line. Planes in and out of Saint Marie were small, so the security line was always short. Before he got to the line, he saw Camille.

“Camille, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Hello, Richard. I just wanted to say thank you. It wasn’t always easy working together, but you’re very good at what you do, and I learned a lot from you. I’m sorry you were so unhappy here. I hope that after the memory of the heat and the sand fades, you’ll remember how beautiful our little island is and how good our team was.” She held out a small gift bag. 

“Thank you. You didn’t have to—”

“I know. But I wanted to. Just a few things to remember us by. Safe home, Richard.” Camille kissed his cheek. “Good bye.”

“Good bye. Good luck with the new Chief,” Richard watched her turn and walk away. He looked into the bag and smiled. There were postcards of scenes of Saint Marie and a small baggie of sand. The gift bag also contained a book, “Voodoo for Beginners,” a tie with bright tropical flowers on it, and a small plastic green lizard. He looked up and saw Camille at the door of the terminal. She turned back and waved. He waved and felt a small pang of regret. But he was sure getting to England would cure that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have assigned Richard to the Bow Street Police Station. The history of Bow Street and the Runners would appeal to him. I know that the station closed many years ago, and the magistrate’s court closed some time after the police station did. The building was supposed to be converted to a hotel, but the last time I was in London, the building was still empty. So I have reactivated the station for the purposes of my story.


	3. Chapter 3

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is the First Officer from the Flight Deck. It is 8:39 local time, and the temperature is 5 degrees Celsius. We will be taxiing for some time, so please remain seated until we reach the gate and the Captain has turned off the seatbelt sign. Thank you for flying with British Airways, and welcome to London.”

Richard could scarcely believe it! He was home! After clearing Passport Control and collecting his luggage (hurrah! they hadn’t lost it!), he walked through the doors of Terminal 5 and breathed in real honest-to-goodness London air. It was a drizzly, cool evening, so very different from the warmth of Saint Marie. He was tempted to take a taxi, just so he could see London approaching, but it was a ridiculous splurge. Instead, he went back into the terminal, made his way to the Underground, and joined the masses of people headed for central London. 

It was a long ride, nearly an hour, but he entertained himself by watching the people. For the first time in nearly a year, he was not the only person to be seen carrying a briefcase. And nobody was in shorts or sandals. Raincoats, umbrellas, sensible shoes—well, apart from the young woman in the purple suede boots—all hallmarks of civilization. 

From the Underground station, Richard walked the few blocks to the small furnished flat he’d rented. His own flat was sub-let to a friend of his landlady. She had been very helpful when he’d found himself stuck on Saint Marie. She had packed up his telescope and books, putting them into storage along with excess clothing and other personal effects. Once he got settled into his new assignment, he’d arrange to get back into his flat, reclaim his possessions, and resume his life. 

At first, it seemed strange to be in a building where all the windows were closed. Then he thought how cozy it felt. The radiator gave off heat. Lovely, dry indoor heat. It was ten o’clock, and he should feel sleepy. But his body was still on Saint Marie time, which was four hours earlier. Reading would help him relax, so he dug in his carry-on bag for the book he’d started to read on the plane.

He reached in and, instead of the book, his hand touched the gift bag Camille had given him. He looked again at the contents. He certainly was NOT going to read the voodoo book. But he looked at the postcards and the little lizard. He smiled at the lizard and said, “Welcome to London.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard had a few days off before reporting to work, so he used the time to get organized. He met with his landlady and her friend who had sub-let his flat. The friend had been thinking of moving, so it was easily arranged for Richard to move back into his flat. He enjoyed unpacking and organizing the books that had been in storage. It was like greeting old friends. He left space to fit in the few books that he’d had with him on Saint Marie. When the boxes arrived, his shelves would be complete. 

Richard indulged himself in shopping. He went to Sainsbury’s for basics, but tea had to be just right. So he went to Fortum & Mason. Good old Fortnum’s! Black tea, green tea, all kinds of tea. He chose three of his favorites—English Breakfast, Assam, and Earl Grey. And while he was there, he treated himself to marmalade and strawberry jam. He passed Waterstone’s and smiled. Books! He couldn’t pass that up. He browsed the shelves, picking up a PD James he hadn’t seen. She wrote such complex mysteries! He didn’t always figure out who the killer was, but he enjoyed trying. A few last stops near his flat, and his shopping was complete.

Richard brewed his tea, spread clotted cream and jam on the scone that he had bought at his local bakery, and settled in to read. Bliss! The murder hadn’t even happened yet when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

Pause

“Yes, I’m settling in well.”

Pause

“Yes, everything was in perfect condition.”

Pause

“No, as I told you yesterday, I don’t need any help unpacking. Thank you, Mum, but I’m managing fine.”

Pause

“Yes.”

Very long pause

“Mum?”

Another long pause

“Mum? MUM! My train will arrive at 11:16. You can tell me all the latest news then. Yes, I’m sure Mrs. Smithers’ daughter is lovely, but please don’t invite her to tea.”

Pause

“Another time, all right, Mum? It’s the first time I’ll have seen you and Dad in ten months, and I don’t want part of that to be a blind date.”

Pause

“Just for the weekend. I start work on Monday.”

Pause

“No, I don’t need a holiday between jobs. I’ll have had a few days. That’s enough. It’s just enough to be home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Pause

“Right, Mum, see you tomorrow. Bye!”

Richard sighed. His cup of tea had gone cold.

-o-o-o-o-

Sunday afternoon, Richard boarded the train and sighed. It had been good to see his parents, but he was ready to go back to his flat. His mother had bombarded him with questions about his time on Saint Marie He’d remembered to bring the postcards Camille had given him, which had helped, but his mother scolded him for not having any pictures of his friends. He tried to explain that they were colleagues, not friends. They didn’t go around taking pictures of each other. When he showed her the picture he’d taken of Harry, his mother sighed. Apparently, a lizard was not an acceptable substitute for friends.

When she wasn’t quizzing him about Saint Marie, Richard’s mother tried to fill him in on every detail of neighborhood gossip. Fortunately, she was so busy talking that she hadn’t noticed that he used “Oh, really?” and “That’s interesting,” and “I didn’t know that,” in perfect rotation.

And now he finally had some peace and quiet on the train. That was the great thing about England. People would give a man some space. On Saint Marie, people seemed to be constantly greeting him. On market day in Honoré, the street was a gauntlet to be run as quickly as possible. He leaned his head back, watched the winter-barren fields go by and savored the anticipation of starting a new job.

-o-o-o-o-

Richard stood outside the Bow Street Police Station. It sounded corny, but he felt honored to be assigned to the station where modern detective work began. He took a deep breath and entered the building. He was greeted by a uniformed constable, who looked at Richard’s warrant card and gave him directions to the Superintendent’s office. 

Superintendent Bancroft was curious about his new detective. Patterson had praised Poole, but Graves had been more guarded. Bancroft believed strongly in good teamwork. If Poole didn’t work well with others, it could lead to awkward situations. At least the man was punctual, Bancroft thought, glancing at his watch after the desk sergeant called to say the new detective was on his way upstairs.

Bancroft stood in his doorway, watching the new detective make his way across the room. Observing people was an important skill for detective work, and Bancroft noticed that the man was an odd combination of behaviours. He held tightly to the handles of his briefcase, which suggested nervousness. But he walked confidently and had an expression of approval on his face as he glanced around the room.

“DI Poole, reporting for duty, Sir,” Richard said in an almost military manner.

“Welcome, Inspector,” Bancroft shook Richard’s hand and waved him to a chair in the office. “I understand you’re just back from a year in the Caribbean.” 

“Ten months, actually,” Richard replied, wincing inwardly as he realized he was splitting hairs and correcting his new boss.

“Right. I gather that you asked to return to England. It sounds like a plum assignment. Why did you want to return just in time for winter?”

“I was sent to solve the murder of a British detective, and somehow that got extended to a regular assignment. Apparently the Met like to keep a presence in the Saint Marie police force. The death of Charlie Hulme left an opening, and I was there, so it seemed a good solution.”

“Commissioner Patterson was sorry to lose you. Your clearance rate is impressive.”

“I had a good team to help me.”

Bancroft saw an opportunity to evaluate Poole’s interpersonal skills. He said, “Tell me about them.”

“Honore is a small station. There were four of us. I had a detective sergeant and two constables.”

“So the DS was your partner?”

“Yes. Reluctantly. She was undercover on a case that crossed mine and I blew her cover. Unintentionally, but it caused her to have to work as a regular detective, and she resented me. To be fair, I resented her for not letting me know what was going on. When we first met, she could have told me she was working on a case related to my murder case. I could have solved the case much sooner if she had been a help rather than an obstruction. But we made peace and managed to work together.”

“And your constables?”

“Well, you have to understand that things are a bit different in a small station on a small island. The older man, Dwayne, is… ah, let’s just say he’s a character. Loves to cultivate a bad-boy image, likes to party, comes into work hung over. But he’s a damn good copper, knows just about everyone on the island, and has more sources than you could believe. The younger one, Fidel, is still gaining experience. He’s very earnest and straight-arrow. Sometimes he tries to be a moral compass for Dwayne, which can be amusing to watch. I think Fidel has the potential to advance.”

“Sounds like you had to juggle very different personalities.”

“Yes. From my descriptions, it sounds like a mess, doesn’t it? But we made a good team.”

“Why didn’t you want to stay?”

“The heat, the sand, the food. I had a house on a beach, which sounds ideal. But the only way to get a breeze through it was to leave the veranda doors open. And that allowed in all manner of bugs, a lizard, and a neighbor’s free-range chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“Yes. It’s quite disconcerting to wake to the sight of a chicken sitting on the bed. The lizard wasn’t bad. He was rather good company, almost a pet. But the whole situation was too different from England, and I’m pleased to be back.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's the same Detective Ricketts from the Nadia Selim case. I needed someone grumpy, so I couldn't use Humphrey.

Detective Chief Inspector Chris Ricketts was NOT happy. He had moved out of his comfortable hotel into the beach shack provided by the Honoré Police Department. No more air conditioning, cable TV with 150 channels, or room service. At least there was wifi. He turned on his laptop and wrote what would be the first of many emails to the Met. That accomplished, he investigated the small kitchen. At least Poole had left him some tea, and there was an electric kettle. He’d have to do some shopping later. Maybe that whatshername DS would drive him. 

He took his second mug of morning tea over to the desk. Something green streaked by and he dropped the mug. 

“WHAT THE HELL?” he shouted.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille parked the Land Rover and walked to the shack. She paused at the bottom of the steps. How many mornings had she picked up Richard here? She stifled a giggle, remembering the time she’d arrived early and he was still in his striped pajamas. 

Richard hadn’t wanted to be here, but he had been professional and done his job. She would miss the way he stalked around the station, glaring at the white board, almost ordering it to tell him the answers. That brought her up short. She would miss Richard Poole, the most annoying Englishman on the planet. Well, THAT made no sense!

From inside the shack, she heard a voice shout “WHAT THE HELL?” and it occurred to Camille that perhaps Richard was not the MOST annoying Englishman after all. 

Camille climbed the steps and stood in the doorway.

“Good morning.”

“That remains to be seen,” Ricketts grumbled. “Some green thing ran through here. Made me drop the bloody mug.”

“Oh, that would be Richard’s lizard.”

“He kept a pet lizard? Where’s the cage?”

“No, not a pet. Richard never captured it. It just lives here.”

“It lives here?”

Camille tried to sound encouraging, “You’ll get used to it.”

Ricketts snorted, “Not bloody likely.”

Camille sighed. Richard was looking better all the time. “I’ll drive you to the station when you’re ready. I’ll wait outside.”

-o-o-o-o-

Ricketts spent most of his first day on duty in Saint Marie grumbling at his computer. He drummed his fingers on his desk while waiting for pages to load. He complained about the size of the CRT on his desk.

“Why don’t you have flatscreens like a normal police station? You do know that it’s 2013, right?”

“Budgets,” said Camille with a shrug. “These work and they run the software we need to use, so this is what we have.”

“Bloody Caribbean,” muttered Ricketts.

_Bloody English detective_ thought Camille.

After a few hours of watching Ricketts grimace and hearing him complain, Camille decided she needed to get out of the station. 

“Sir? I’m going out to get something for lunch. Okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Pick up something for me.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Whatever.”

“A sandwich?”

“Sure.”

Camille rolled her eyes at Dwayne and left the building. Halfway down the steps, she spied the Commissioner walking toward the station.

“Camille, good morning!”

“Good morning, sir.” _Not that it’s really a good morning_

“New Inspector settling in?”

“I guess so,” she sighed.

“Now, Camille, don’t tell me he’s difficult or that you can’t work with him. You said that about Inspector Poole and look how well you two worked together. It’s an adjustment, you’ll be fine.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The Commissioner smiled, “Excellent.” 

Camille gave him a weak smile and continued on her way toward the market. Had it been this difficult when Richard was first there? She remembered their first day together.

_“I can’t work with him!”_

_“I can’t work with her!”_

_“Why don’t you go back to England?”_

_“I’m trying!”_

_“Try Harder!”_

He’d wanted to go. She’d wanted him to go. And he had gone. And now… Well, really, she thought, she only missed Richard because Ricketts was such a pain. Why did they need an English detective at the station, anyhow? She was beginning to understand Lily’s frustration with the system.


	5. Chapter 5

Superintendent Bancroft led Richard to a large office that contained three desks. The men occupying two of the desks looked up when their boss entered. 

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Good Morning. I’d like you to meet your new colleague. This is DI Richard Poole, recently returned from an overseas assignment. Poole, meet DI Chetan Malati and DI Michael Kelly. Now that you’re three, you truly are going to be the Odd Squad.”

Seeing the quizzical look on Richard’s face, Kelly reached out to shake his hand. He said, “I’m Mike, he’s Chet. Don’t worry. We aren’t odd, our cases are.”

“Right, cold cases,” Richard nodded.

“Yeah,” Chet chimed in. “We’re like ‘New Tricks’ but without the hot blonde.”

“Sorry I can’t oblige,” said Bancroft drily as he walked away.

Richard’s insecurities flooded back as he realized these men had inside jokes that he did not understand. He needed to make a good start. What would Camille do in a situation like that? Well, that would depend on her mood. In a good mood, she’d make a joke. What the hell, try it.

“Sorry, what new tricks are there to learn? I’m rather an old dog, as you can see.” Richard relaxed when he saw the other men smile.

“So are we,” Mike said. “That’s the point. We old dogs know a lot of old bits of information that sometimes help with cold cases. You know, like Gerry and Brian.”

“Sorry,” Richard began. “But I don’t know who you mean.”

“You don’t watch ‘New Tricks?’ You know, the TV programme?”

“Sorry, no. I—God, have I started EVERY sentence with _sorry?_ I must sound like an idiot. It’s just I’ve been out of the country and had very limited access to television, especially British television.”

“Where were you?” asked Chet.

“On a small Caribbean island. British now, but with a long history of French rule. We were close to Guadeloupe, which is French, and somehow our TV all came from there. I got news, of course, on the Internet. But please assume that I have had zero exposure to a year’s worth of pop culture.” 

“The Caribbean?” asked Mike. “That sounds marvelous. How’d you manage that?”

“I didn’t manage it. It just happened to me. I was sent to investigate the murder of an English policeman and somehow got assigned to stay.”

“You must miss it. I mean, autumn is coming on and soon it will be cold.”

“Can’t wait!” Richard beamed. “Don’t look at me as if I’m out of my mind. It was in the 30s all the time, humid, buggy, sand everywhere. Proper pavement and cold weather look good to me. Now, tell me about the reference to the new tricks.”

Mike answered, “It’s a TV programme about a bunch of old timers brought together to solve cold cases. Their boss is a very fit blonde. Give it a look if you get a chance. Meanwhile, you can read through a few of the cold cases we’ve got at the moment. Folders are on your desk.”

“Right,” said Chet. “We’ve got some old cases to poke through, see if anything looks promising, if we get any brilliant notions. That isn’t all we do. We do get regular cases. Usually that means one of us leading a team pulled from the pool of DS and uniforms. Sometimes one of us gets lent out to another station. Basically, if a genius is needed, off we go. We were put on this detail because of our high clearance rates, and the Gov says your record is brilliant. The idea is to have people who look at things differently and hope ideas pop.”

“And they sometimes throw a trainee into our midst, see if anyone looks to be an incipient genius.” Mike grinned, “Haven’t found anyone as smart as we are yet. So, Richard. Are you Rick, Rich, Dick?”

“Richard. I’ve never used a nickname. I suppose it goes back to school. Headmaster didn’t approve, so I’ve always been Richard.”

“Right, then Richard it is. You’ll meet others at the station gradually, but for now you’re stuck with us. Ah! And this is Jenny, the Gov’s PA.”

“Morning!” said a chipper young woman. “Inspector Poole, I’m here to take you up to HR.”

“Don’t get writer’s cramp from filling out paperwork,” said Chet. “You’ll need to be able to lift a pint. If nothing new crops up, lunch is on us.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard returned to his new office to see that the whiteboard had become a tropical beach scene, with palm trees and ocean waves.

“In case you get homesick,” Mike grinned.

Richard would never admit it, but there were aspects of Saint Marie that he missed. The sound of the waves, the blue of the sky, Camille’s scolding, Dwayne’s hangovers, and… 

“Harry!” he exclaimed.

“Who’s Harry?”

“My lizard. Well, not mine, really. He lived in my shack.” Richard reached into his briefcase and pulled out the plastic lizard Camille had given him. He’d brought it this morning in case he felt brave enough to put something personal on his desk. He set the toy on the little ledge that held the markers. “This was a going-away gift from my DS. Now he won’t be homesick.”

-o-o-o-o-

Over lunch, Chet and Mike told Richard about the station and the various personalities. Richard was relieved to find that everyone seemed to get along. In turn, Richard entertained his colleagues with stories of waking to find a hen nesting on a pillow, going into the station and finding a goat in a cell. Mike was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes by the time Richard got to the story of Camille’s “escape” from the jail cell.

“Interpol? You were going to call Interpol?” he managed to ask between guffaws.

“Yes. She was an escaped criminal, wanted for murder and human trafficking.” Richard paused. “Well, I thought so at the time. She could have told me who she was, but no, she had to play out the hand to her advantage.”

“Sounds like a clever girl,” said Chet.

“Indeed,” Richard nodded. “A good detective, and a good partner once we managed to get over our mutual resentment. Our whole team meshed well once we learned each other’s strengths.”

“That’s how it should be,” Chet agreed. “I think we’ll be a good team. But we should probably get back to the station, or we won’t be on any team.”

-o-o-o-o-

That evening, Richard reflected on his day. How different it was from Croyden! And what a smooth beginning compared to the rocky start he’d had with Camille. Looking back at his time on Saint Marie, he realized he’d made little effort to fit in, to adapt to his situation. This time, fitting in was so easy. Was it because these were nicer people than Anderson’s bunch at Croyden? Or had he changed? Had he learned a little of the value of making a good first impression, of getting along with people?


	6. Chapter 6

_six months later, Saint Marie_

The prosecutor was _not_ happy. He tossed the file onto his desk and glared at Camille.

“What the hell were you thinking, Detective? I can’t get a conviction on this!”

“I know. It’s the best we could do.”

“That’s pathetic. Poole always made a big point of telling me that the team solved cases, not just him. So why can’t the team solve cases now? Three of you are still here.”

“DI Ricketts said we had enough.”

“You know better, Detective. Why did you accept that?”

“Because the last time I tried to push a different approach, Inspector Ricketts told me the case was closed and that he’d write me up for insubordination if I undermined him.”

“Have you talked to the Commissioner about this?”

“He doesn’t want to hear it. He just reminds me that Inspector Poole and I didn’t get along well at first.”

“I can’t prosecute this case, so I’m going to have to let Hutton go. This is the second time in three months that this kind of thing has happened. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, Detective. I will speak to the Commissioner about this.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the warning. Does Inspector Ricketts know?”

“I talked to him about this case, but he said it wasn’t his fault that I’m not a good lawyer.”

“He hates it here. I think he’d take a demotion if it got him kicked back to London.”

“Is that what you think he’s doing?”

“Either that or he’s lazy. I have to tell you, morale in Honoré is not good. We were a team with Inspector Poole, and we don’t have that team feeling now. Please let me know how your conversation with the Commissioner goes.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille stood outside Government House, fuming. If she took too long on a case or pursued too many details, Ricketts would tell her to back off and stop wasting time. If she didn’t do a thorough investigation, the prosecutor would chew her out. No matter what she did, she was in the wrong. She pulled out her mobile.

_“Honore Police Station, Officer Myers speaking.”_

“Hi Dwayne, it’s me. Is Ricketts there?”

_“No. He said it’s too hot here and that we are to call him if something happens.”_

“Can you and Fidel take care of the station for a while longer? I need to calm down before I get behind the wheel.”

_“What happened?”_

“The prosecutor is letting Hutton go. Not enough evidence. I KNEW we were closing the investigation too soon, but what could I do? Ricketts gave me a direct order.”

_“Damn, we know he’s guilty. A few more days would have been enough to gather more evidence.”_

“I know. I’m going to take a walk and then I’ll be back.”

_“Take your time, it’s quiet here.”_

“Thanks, Dwayne.”

-o-o-o-o-

Every day it became more obvious that Ricketts wanted to get away from Saint Marie. And Camille would be happy to see him go. But then what? Another Englishman to sit there and complain about the heat and the computer and the car and the food? 

Camille’s temper was getting shorter, and Ricketts’ consumption of rum was increasing. Dwayne and Fidel both dreaded the blow-up that could happen at any time. One day Fidel made the mistake of saying how Inspector Poole would have done something, and Camille snapped, “Well, he isn’t here, is he!”

Finally, Camille went to the Commissioner and asked to apply for a promotion to DI. Ricketts would eventually wear down the Powers That Be at the Met and get his transfer back to London. Camille thought the time would be right for her to be the team leader. 

“I don’t know,” mused Patterson. “You don’t have enough experience or high enough rank.”

“I already outrank Dwayne and Fidel, and you know they’d be fine with me as Chief. And doesn’t my time undercover count for anything?”

“You weren’t managing a team.”

“But I’ve been part of a team. I worked for an excellent leader, and I learned a lot from Inspector Poole. And I’ve learned even more about how NOT to manage team from Ricketts.”

Patterson had to admit Camille made some good points. But promoting Camille might not be possible. “Chief Inspector Ricketts probably is going back to England soon. Let’s see how things go with the next detective the Met sends. And I will talk to them and consider the situation. You’d probably need more training, which would be difficult. If you leave for training now, I’m going to have to find another DS, and I don’t know if the Met will send me two detectives.”

“So I’m trapped here? Trapped putting up with whatever stick-up-his—” Camille stopped herself just in time. “Trapped with whatever detective the Met sends? If this is what the rest of my career will look like…”

“Patience, Camille.”

“Yes, Sir.” Camille rose and left Patterson’s office. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to slam the door behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard meets someone from his past.

_a few months later, London_

Richard stood in the alley, looking down at the corpse. It was a damp, chilly morning. Dead leaves and a few pieces of newspaper had blown into the alley. It would be winter soon. He realized that the weather had been like this when he first returned to London. He’d been here a year already. A whole year without verging on heatstroke or having to shoo chickens off of his bed. 

“Inspector?” the voice of the Medical Examiner brought Richard back to the present. “You sort of wandered off there.”

“Sorry. I was thinking about what a raw morning it is. What were you saying?”

“Strangled, obviously, but there’s something interesting. See how the mark on his throat is angled?”

Richard nodded, “Yes. Looks like a rope mark, but the rope was pulled higher on the right than on the left.”

“Exactly. It’s an awkward angle. Difficult to tighten the rope when it’s uneven like that.”

“Cause?”

“I don’t know. Uneven grip or strength of the attacker.”

“Hmm,” Richard looked at the angry red line across the victim’s throat. “Something to keep in mind as we look at suspects. Anything else?”

“Not that I can see from a quick look here on the street.”

“Thanks. Get your report to me as soon as you can.” Richard turned to the DS who had accompanied him and said, “Organize the canvass of the neighborhood. There aren’t many windows facing the alley, so start with those flats, then do the rest of the flats. I’ll go back to the station and start looking into Mr. Cramer’s background.”

“Right, sir.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard stood and stretched. After two hours on the computer, he hadn’t found anything suspicious or unusual in their victim’s background. The odd angle of the rope was the only unusual aspect of the case. Neither Mike nor Chet could remember seeing a case like that. Richard made a cup of tea and returned to his computer. It was a long shot, but maybe there was a related case somewhere.

Richard’s search of the current case database paid off. There had been a similar murder a week ago in Southwark. He scrolled through the page and groaned inwardly when he saw who had the case. Still, now that he knew, he had to make the call.

-o-o-o-o-

It might not be so bad, Richard told himself as he climbed the steps of the Southwark Police Station. At least it wasn’t Croyden. He showed his warrant card to the desk sergeant, who called the homicide department to announce his arrival. A minute later, Richard heard a familiar voice.

“Dickie Poole! Well, what do you know! Back from the sunny seaside, then, are you?”

“Yes, been back nearly a year.”

“Really? Then how long were you in the Caribbean? Can’t have been more than a year there. They gave you the boot, did they?

“No, I asked to be transferred back to London. The climate didn’t agree with me.”

“Did they have a party when you left?”

“No, we had a simple goodbye.”

“No, I mean _after_ you left, did they celebrate?”

“I don’t know. When did you leave Croyden?”

“About six months after you did. I was looking for a change. Saw this opening, thought it might be interesting. It’s a good station.”

“Right. Well, if you could show me what you’ve got on your victim.”

“All business, no fun. You never change, Dickie.” Anderson led Richard to a conference room where the scene photos and reports were spread out on a table. Richard chose a photograph and pointed to the rope mark.

“This is the connection. Our victim had a similar mark. See the odd angle?”

“Yeah, I know. Our ME mentioned it. I don’t think it’s anything.”

“It could tell us something about the killer.”

“That’s what my trainee said. I’ve got this DS from the Caribbean. I expected someone laid back, but no. Pain in the arse, always asking questions, checking details. She’s you with dark skin and tits. Wouldn’t mind bedding her, though.” 

“You do know that’s sexist and if she heard you she could get you for harassment, don’t you?”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “She’s going home in a few months, so it’s just a bit of fun. How long were you in the Caribbean? You didn’t hook up with any of these hot birds in bikinis? Loser, you are such a loser, Dickie. Come on, want to see what you missed?” 

Anderson opened the door of the small room and yelled, “Hey, Pumpkin Eater, where’s my girl? Oh, there you are, Camille, get your cute self over here.”

Richard’s heart lurched. Could it really be her?

Anderson said, “Camille, come meet an old mate of mine, Dickie Poole. We used to be at Croyden station together.”

“Dickie boy, meet DS Camille Bordey.” Anderson was facing Richard, so he couldn’t see the look of recognition on Camille’s face. 

Richard kept a neutral expression on his face. He stood and extended his hand and said, “Hello Sergeant Bordey, nice to meet you.”

Camille was surprised at the lack of recognition. She decided to play along, so she smiled and shook his hand. “Hello, Inspector Poole. Are you having more luck with this case than we are?”

“Sadly, no. We only got our victim two days ago. But I’d appreciate hearing your thoughts.”

Anderson sighed, “Dickie, I gave you everything we have.”

“Yes, but sometimes another person looks at a case in a different way.”

“Fine,” Anderson huffed. “I’m going to lunch. Have a nice chat. And after you discuss Camille’s notions, you can swap stories about life in the Caribbean. She’s from a little island, Saint something-or-other.”

“Saint Marie,” said Camille. 

Was that where you were, Dickie? Maybe you were neighbors.”

“Bahamas,” Richard lied. 

“Whatever,” Anderson shrugged. “I’ll see you later, Camille.”

Camille sat opposite Richard. She looked down at the crime scene photos. 

“Why?”

“Motive, you mean?”

“No, why didn’t you recognize me? Why did you lie about where you’d been?”

“I recognized you. Of course I did. It’s just better if he doesn’t know we’re acquainted. He and I, uh, well, we didn’t get along, and it’s probably better for you if he doesn’t know. You don’t need him making jokes about you being dumb Dickie’s Caribbean girlfriend.”

“I doubt things could get much worse.”

“I know how it can be.”

She rised her eyebrows. “Dickie?”

“Yeah.” Richard sighed, “I see that he’s still at it. Why Pumpkin Eater?”

“Peter Harrington.”

“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater?”

Camille nodded, “Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Peter and his wife split up a few months ago. Anderson thought it was funny.”

Richard shook his head, “I’m sure he did. How long have you been in London?”

“Two months.”

“Why didn’t you contact me? I would have shown you around, help you learn your way around.”

Camille shrugged, “You were happy to leave Saint Marie, and you never answered any of the emails we sent, so I figured you wouldn’t want to see me.”

Camille looked forlorn, and Richard felt a surge of protectiveness. He understood what it was like to be a stranger in a new place, learning to deal with new people. He would have tried to help, if she’d asked.

“If you need to talk, call me.” He wrote his number in a notebook and tore out the page. “That’s my new mobile.”

“Thank you.”

“Walk me out?”

“In character?”

Richard smiled, “Exactly.”

At the door, Richard shook Camille’s hand again and said, “Thank you, Sergeant. If we uncover anything pertinent, I’ll be in touch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guessed it, LizzieB!


	8. Chapter 8

Camille kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat onto the bed. She looked around her flat. It was tiny, really just one room plus bath. But it had come fully furnished, even down to cookware and dishes, convenient for a few month’s stay. She’d first seen it on a sunny day. Now, on a rainy evening, the place seemed dreary. Who decided that gray was the new chic color? It sucked all the light out of the room. She turned on the light in the kitchenette and opened the fridge. She needed to do some shopping. Maybe this weekend she’d buy a chicken and make soup. Her mother’s recipe, comfort food.

That soup had been one of the many things she and Richard had argued about. Seeing him again brought back memories of times they’d argued and times they’d laughed. She took a beer from the fridge and thought back to the day they’d christened the _Roast Beef._ She and Richard had sat in the boat with their beers, waving to Fidel and Dwayne on shore. They’d been a good team. She believed she could give Honoré a good team again. If only the path to that goal didn’t run past Doug Anderson.

-o-o-o-o-

Richard set his briefcase on the hall table and hung up his coat. Seeing Camille today had been quite a surprise. He realized that he hadn’t asked what she was doing in London. And he hadn’t asked for her personal phone number. He could call her at work, but he’d have to come up with something related to the case. It wouldn’t do for Anderson to know they’d worked together. It was going to be bad enough working the strangling case with Anderson. But at least now he had Chet and Mike, plus other detectives at Bow Street, who actually seemed to like working with him. Bow Street felt like home.

His new flat was beginning to feel like home, too. The commute from Croyden to Bow Street became tiresome. Richard would love to have moved close to Bow Street, but that neighborhood was expensive. So he was still on the south side of the Thames, but closer to the river than he used to be. A longish walk, so he took a bus. But it was good to know he could walk to work if he had to. 

Richard turned on the light over the kitchenette. He pulled leftovers from last night’s supper out of the fridge. He opened a beer and set the table. While his food heated in the microwave, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. His usual routine, a quiet night at home.

-o-o-o-o-

A few days later, Richard’s computer pinged. There was another strangling. He hated the thought of having to deal with Anderson again. Richard couldn’t decide what was worse, a morning hangover or an after-lunch inebriation. Still, it was procedure and he had no choice but to call Southwark. 

_“Southwark Police Station, DS Bordey speaking.”_

“Camille? It’s Richard. I asked for Anderson, is he there?”

_“No, he’s in Manchester for a few days. Do you have news about the stranglings?”_

“There’s been another one, in Chiswick. Since Anderson’s away, can you come to the scene?”

_“Yes. What’s the address?”_

Richard told her, then started to give her directions.

_“I’ve got it. Change at Westminster for District.”_

“Well, listen to you! Got the Tube map memorized already.”

_“No, got the app on my mobile.”_

“Right. See you there.”

-o-o-o-o-

As Richard started up the stairs at Chiswick, he heard a familiar voice call to him. He turned to see Camille walking toward him. As he had noticed the other day, she was wearing smart trousers and sensible shoes. A far cry from the tight jeans and short shorts she’d favored on Saint Marie. She was doing a better job of fitting in here in London than he had on Saint Marie. 

“I wish I’d known we were on the same train,” she said. “If I’d had a signal, I would have tried to call you. Why don’t they have mobile service down here? Paris has it.”

“Our underground is older, so it’s more difficult to retrofit.”

“Oh, please, Richard! It’s only a few years older. Admit it, Paris is ahead of London on technology.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” he grumbled as they crossed the street. 

“You can’t give the French credit for anything, can you?” she teased, and they good-naturedly argued all the way to the crime scene.

As they waited to cross another street, Richard pointed to the crime scene team already at work. “It feels like old times, doesn’t it?”

“Do you mean arguing, or working a case together?” Camille asked.

“Both,” Richard replied, wondering which he had missed more.

At the scene, they located the detective in charge.

“DI Willis? I’m DCI Richard Poole and this is DS Camille Bordey,” Richard shook the man’s hand and didn’t notice Camille’s little gasp at the mention of his rank. 

“Good morning,” said Willis. “I understand you each have a body with the unusual ligature marks.”

“That’s right,” said Richard. “May we?”

“Yes, of course,” Willis led them to the body. Richard and Camille squatted to get a closer look. Richard pointed to the upward angle of the mark and Camille nodded. They stood up again.

“Looks the same,” said Camille. “But the placement is different. This one is in a park. Mine was in an alley, and Richard, um, Inspector Poole’s was behind a building.”

The medical examiner joined them and said, “Looks like this one was moved here. Odd place to dump a body. You’d think the killer would hide it, not drop it in an open space.”

“We’ve got teams out asking around,” said Willis. “So, Chief Inspector Poole, you’re coordinating?”

“Yes.” Richard handed Willis his card. “Here’s my email.”

“Okay, I’ll send you whatever we find. Thanks for coming all this way. Wow, I got to meet one of the Odd Squad. You made my day!”

Camille looked at Richard. What on earth was the odd squad? Richard smiled and promised to keep Willis informed. Then he and Camille left the DI to manage the scene.

Once they were out of sight of the scene, Camille turned to Richard and hit him in the arm. “Richard! Why didn’t you tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“The promotion. When did you get to DCI?”

“A few months ago.”

“Congratulations!” Camille looked at her watch. “It’s almost time for lunch. Look at all these nice little restaurants. What a cute area! Come on, let me buy you lunch to celebrate. And you can tell my why it’s so cool to be odd.”

-o-o-o-o-

Choosing a restaurant was a familiar negotiation. Camille wanted something “nicer than a pub” and Richard did not want French or Moroccan. They finally settled on a restaurant that seemed to have a little of everything. After they ordered, Camille asked Richard about the Odd Squad.

“We’re supposed to be a cold case group, but we also handle current cases. I had no idea we were known outside of Bow Street. I think our Gov likes to brag because we have high closure rates. Of course, we only count the cold cases we actually work on, not the ones we consider hopeless. So we can sort of pick and choose what we do. Sometimes someone with influence gets the Gov to assign us an old case that has some kind of political significance, but usually we get to choose.”

“It sounds perfect for you. You always did like puzzles. I remember how you obsessed over that missing piece from the jigsaw puzzle.”

“I remember arguing over the best way to do a puzzle. If I recall correctly, you sort pieces by color, whereas I sort by shape.”

Camille smiled, “We did argue over a lot of things. But it was sort of equal. I mean, you let me argue.”

“I don’t remember having a choice in that.”

“Oh, you sometimes were very stern and said ‘That’s enough Sergeant Bordey.’ But often you listened to my arguments and sometimes even let me be right. Ricketts…” she sighed.

“What?”

“He would just squelch any extraneous ideas, any suggestions. He hated being on Saint Marie more than you did. You complained, but you always did your job. He did the minimum he could get away with. I finally went to the Commissioner and asked if Ricketts left, could I get the station. So I’m here for training. If I do well, I might have a chance at a promotion and maybe the station. Meanwhile, there’s someone new as Chief, a temporary assignment for six months. He came in just after I left. The boys say he’s nicer than Ricketts. Smart, but disorganized.”

“So you’ve been at Southwark since you got here?”

“Yes. And before you ask, no I don’t argue with Anderson. Or anyone else. I saw pretty quickly how things are, and I figured I would give him as little ammunition as possible.”

“Good strategy, but you’ll find he’ll provide his own ammunition.” Sensing that Camille was about to ask about his history with Anderson, Richard changed the topic slightly. “Is he still drinking?”

“I don’t think so. I know he’s supposed to be going to meetings, but he doesn’t talk about it much. I did see him carry one of those chip things they get for so many days of sobriety. So I guess he’s sober. But still sleazy. He makes sly innuendoes. Nothing I can complain about, but there’s a creepy feeling to it. I said something to one of the other DIs when Anderson sort of propositioned me. The guy said that Anderson’s wife is crippled, so it’s difficult for him and that I shouldn’t blame him for wanting a little time off from caring for her. Apparently, Anderson’s life is restricted by her illness. So somehow he and his friends think that makes it okay for him to fool around.”

“His wife was in an accident and is unable to walk.”

“Are you excusing him, too?”

Remembering how quick Camille was to get angry, Richard quickly said, “No! Certainly not.”

“I don’t know about London, but where I come from, we take ‘for better or for worse’ seriously,” Camille huffed.

“Let’s not let Anderson ruin lunch,” Richard said as their food arrived. “Have you had much time for exploring London? Where are you staying?”

“I haven’t been out a lot. I did ride the Eye and go to Madame Toussaud’s. I’ve been meaning to go to some of the museums but I’ve been busy settling in and learning my neighborhood. I live fairly near the station, just a small studio flat. Oh! I love Borough Market! All that wonderful fresh food—the breads, cheeses, fruit, veggies. And meat and fish. It reminds me of going to the market in Honoré, but much larger.”

-o-o-o-o-

The Tube was busy as they traveled back to their stations. Richard was usually annoyed at being in a crowded car, but today he didn’t mind, as it forced them to stand close together. Spending the morning with Camille, working and bickering, had brought back memories. She was the most unusual, difficult, aggravating partner he’d ever had. And the smartest. He was sorry someone had to die so he could spend time with her. At least the case would give him an excuse to stay in touch with her. And maybe…

The train slowed, and Camille said “This is you.”

“See, you do have the map in your head! Thank you for lunch. We’ll stay in touch about the case. And maybe get together again for lunch or supper.”

“Yes, I’d like that. And congratulations again on the promotion.” Camille gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and he turned to squeeze his way through the crowd and out of the car.


	9. Chapter 9

Richard was pleased when DI Willis emailed him to say that the Medical Examiner found tissue under the third victim’s nails. DNA tests would take a while, but at least it gave them a bit of hope. Richard replied to thank Willis, then composed another email.

>   
>  To Anderson.D; Bordey.C  
>  From Poole.R  
>  Re Case 30569/A/39, stranglings  
>  Good news, ME found tissue under nails of Victim 3. Any luck identifying your victim?  
>  FTP site will be set up soon.  
>  DCI Richard Poole  
>  Bow Street Station WC2  
> 

A few minutes later, Richard’s phone rang.

“Bow Street Police Station, DCI Poole speaking.”

_“Dickie, it’s Doug Anderson. Listen, don’t bother me with the stranglings. Since Camille went to the third scene with you, it’s her case now. I mean, with CHIEF Inspector Poole to supervise her, she doesn’t need me to be on this case.”_

Richard thought that nobody needed Anderson on a case, but bit back any comments to that effect. Instead, he said, “Could you transfer this call to her line, please?”

_“She’s out working on the case. So, are you going to arrange a little meeting to [cough cough] talk about the case? She’s hot. I don’t fancy your chances, Dickie Boy.”_

“Please tell her I called. Oh, and as I’m now DCI Poole, I think RICHARD or, better still, CHIEF INSPECTOR would be a more appropriate form of address from a DI.” Richard hung up before he had to listen to any more of Anderson’s snark.

-o-o-o-o-

On Friday afternoon, a fourth body was discovered. Richard was notified, and immediately called Willis, who declined the invitation, citing the time it would take him to get there before the end of the work day. He said he would look at the FTP site first thing Monday morning. Richard wished him a good weekend and called Camille.

_“Southwark Police Station, Detective Sergeant Bordey speaking.”_

“Camille, it’s Richard. We’ve got another body. It was found in the canal basin near Kings Cross. I know it’s a bit late in the day, but I wondered if you want to come to the scene.”

_“Oh, thank you for calling, Sir. Yes, I would like to see the scene. It’s an important part of my training, and I don’t mind working a bit late.”_

“Anderson is rolling his eyes now, isn’t he?” Richard figured it would be either that or making gagging gestures. Anderson had never put in a second more time than strictly required.

_“That’s right, Sir. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”_

-o-o-o-o-

Camille arrived at the scene after Richard and found him talking to the Medical Examiner. She listened as the ME estimated the time of death. Then the ME showed her the body so that she could examine the ligature mark on the neck.

“Yes, it looks the same,” said Camille, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

“You’re from an island. This can’t be your first floater.” said the ME.

“No. But they’re never pleasant.”

“No, they aren’t. Right, then. We’ll take him away, and anything we find out will go to Inspector Poole. Have a good weekend.” And with that, the Medical Examiner staff collected the body and their equipment and left. 

“The thing with a floater is,” Richard began. “This isn’t the scene of the crime. And a few days in the water will likely have washed away a lot of trace on the body and added irrelevant bits. But you already know that. Sorry, I don’t mean to be pedantic.”

Camille smiled. “At the risk of having to listen to a long lecture on some arcane subject, I have to say I sometimes miss your pedantic moments. But you’re right. There isn’t anything useful to see here.”

“Sorry, I suppose I wasted your time.”

“That’s all right. I’m grateful for any time I can get away from Anderson and the station. And it’s nice to see you again, as well.”

Emboldened by Camille’s friendly attitude, Richard said, “If I can find a suitably arcane subject to bore you with, would you like to go for supper? I mean, if you don’t have plans, which you probably do given that it’s the start of the weekend. But—”

“I’d love to.”

“How about my local? It’s only the pub, but they do good fish and ships. Scampi, too, if you prefer shellfish.”

“With eyes?” Camille teased.

“Certainly not! This is a civilized country.” Richard tried to look indignant, but Camille’s laugh was infectious, and he grinned at the thought of spending more time with her. Not that it was a date. No, it was colleagues going out after a long week. But it was better than another evening on his own.

-o-o-o-o-

The pub was like many other pubs, dark wood paneling, slightly worn carpet, glass rings on tabletops despite an ample array of mats. It was busy, but Richard was able to place their order quickly. He picked up their glasses and led Camille to a table in a relatively quiet dining room away from the bar. 

A waitress showed up with cutlery and serviettes. She said that the kitchen was a bit slow, and set down a bowl of crisps to “keep you from starvation until your food arrives.”

“Thanks, Carole,” Richard replied.

“It’s nice,” said Camille. “Friendly, comfortable. They know you and you know them. I see why you like it.”

“I like that they’re an independent. So many of the pubs are part of a chain, with all of them having the same menu. Half the pubs near Bow Street are Nicholsons.”

“Does it matter if they all have the same menu? Considering your narrow range of food choices, a varied menu shouldn’t make a difference to you.”

“My range of food choices is wider than you think. It’s just on Saint Marie, once you rule out shellfish, there isn’t a lot of choice. How are you doing with food? You mentioned the market. Are you finding things that you like?”

“I like all sorts of different foods, so I’m doing okay. I miss having a barbecue. And I have found a few Caribbean restaurants. But mostly I go back to my flat and cook something simple. I’m sorry I teased you about your monastic cell. That’s pretty much my life here.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“No. But I find I’m more tired here than I was on Saint Marie. Part of it is how short the days are becoming. I feel as if it’s always dark. And work is… not fun.”

“That’s why they call it work,” Richard replied, trying to be amusing. It didn’t work. Camille looked as if she would cry any second. “Sorry, I don’t mean to make light of it. I know how it is.”

“He calls me Beach Babe,” Camille blinked back tears. “He gives me all the boring tasks, never wants to hear my ideas.”

“You wouldn’t have put up with that from me,” Richard said.

“No. I set you straight early on. But it’s different with Anderson. If I scolded him, he’d get even. He’d use it to make fun of me.”

Carole arrived with their food just as Camille was fumbling in her purse for a tissue. Seeing that Camille was crying, Carole glared at Richard. He shook his head and held up his hands, mouthing “not my fault.”

Camille excused herself to dry her eyes in the Ladies Room, and Richard asked Carole to wrap their food to take away. “I’m sorry to be a bother, Carole, but she’s an old friend who’s having a rough time at work. I thought this might cheer her up, but it isn’t working.”

“All right. Seeing as you’re not the bad guy.” Carole shook a finger at Richard. “But don’t you go taking advantage of being her knight in shining armor.”

-o-o-o-o-

As they walked the few blocks to Richard’s flat, Camille apologized several times.

“It’s all right, Camille. You didn’t ruin supper. We can eat at my flat. You can get to see my monastic cell.”

Richard quickly set the table, found two bottles of beer, and they sat down to eat. Camille began to apologize again.

“Don’t. I understand, more than anyone you know. You can’t win and it’s frustrating.”

“He’s so unprofessional. The nicknames are demeaning. Well, not all of them. He’s nice to his cronies. But for others … When I left this afternoon, Peter Harrington looked like he’d give anything to have someone call him out on a case.”

“Harrington? Oh, right, the one Anderson called Pumpkin Eater.”

“He’s a good detective, a lot like you. He’s quiet and doesn’t join in the banter, but he isn’t stupid. He figures things out, often out of pure stubbornness. He doesn’t let little things go. I wish they’d assigned me to him. But then Anderson would have tried to make something sleazy out of us working together, you know, with Peter not being married anymore.”

“I wish there were something I could do to help, to be more supportive.”

“It helps to be able to talk about it.” Camille stood and picked up her plate. Richard took it from her.

“No, no. You’re my guest. The remote is on the coffee table. See if there’s anything you want to watch. Your choice, whatever will cheer you up.”

“Even a chick flick?”

“Anything for you.” He smiled nervously, and busied himself with the dishes.

Camille did find a chick flick, but she wasn’t paying much attention. Instead, she looked around the living area. Sitting on the sofa, she faced a wall covered by bookshelves except for the cabinet that the television sat on. The books weren’t surprising. Camille remembered how much time Richard spent reading. There had always been stacks of books on the desk in his shack on Saint Marie. The outer wall of the flat was nearly all windows, overlooking the street. In daylight, the room would probably be pleasantly bright. There was a dining area, then the kitchenette along the far wall. 

She got up and walked over to the worktop. She saw a dish towel, so she started to dry the dishes.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I don’t mind. This is nice, Richard.”

“Hmm?” He wasn’t sure what she meant. Did she mean this moment of domesticity?

“Your flat. I like it. The books are very _you,_ but the rest is surprising.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Everything looks very up-to-date.”

“Which isn’t very _me._ ”

“That isn’t what I meant. You had a flat before, so I didn’t think you’d have all new furniture.”

“The wife of one of my colleagues is a decorator. When she found out I was moving, she insisted on helping. She really was helpful. She saved me from Mum, who would have bought net curtains and fussy flowered slipcovers. I had no idea what to buy, and left on my own would probably have bought the same sort of stuff I had before, shades of brown. I had no idea grey was The Color nowadays. The flat came with the cream walls, and Morgan suggested the grey for the furniture, which I liked. She said yellow and lime green are the colors that people use with the grey, but I chose the red. Mike, her husband, said it was because I’m a homicide detective and I’m used to the sight of blood.”

“Charcoal with accents of dried blood. Très chic, Richard. Also très comfy.”

“Go stretch out on the sofa.” He took the towel from her hands. “I’ll finish here. Then would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Richard put the kettle on and by the time the tea was ready, Camille had fallen asleep on the sofa. She was so weary that he didn’t want to wake her. Instead, he took the “dried-blood red” blanket from the back of the sofa and gently placed it over her. He read for a while, and when it was clear she was down for the count, he put out the lights and went to bed.

Richard lay awake for a while, thinking about Camille and her situation at work. She’d looked tired tonight, probably hadn’t been sleeping well. No wonder she fell asleep the way she did. He probably should have offered her his bed and taken the sofa himself. But she’d been sleeping so soundly he couldn’t bear to wake her.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille woke in the middle of the night and didn’t recognize where she was. On a sofa somewhere. Then she remembered. She was at Richard’s flat. She didn’t remember the blanket being there. Had he covered her? He’d been so kind this evening, listening to her woes. He understood her homesickness, too. Of course he did. He’d been homesick on Saint Marie. Camille was chagrined to realize that she had not been kind or sympathetic to him when they started working together. She owed Richard thanks for tonight and an apology for Saint Marie. She rolled over, snuggled under the blanket, and fell asleep again.


	10. Chapter 10

The next time Camille woke, it was morning. She was surprised at how good she felt. She’d slept in her clothes, on a sofa, but it was the best night’s sleep she’d had in over a month. She sat up and could see Richard sipping tea and reading the newspaper. He was dressed already. She wondered if that was because she was there. She imagined him spending a leisurely Saturday morning in pajamas and robe. He looked up and saw that she was awake.

“Good morning. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep all day.”

“How late is—oh! I never sleep this late. It’s all the fault of your sofa. It’s much too comfortable. Thank you for letting me sleep.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like some coffee? I was just going to put the kettle on. Don’t worry, it won’t be instant. I have a press.”

“That sounds lovely. And where, um…”

“Just down the hall,” Richard pointed.

Camille looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and sighed. She would have to do the best she could under the circumstances. She splashed some water on her face and used tissues to remove the makeup smudges under her eyes. Her hair was messy, but she found an elastic in her pocket and pulled it back. She wanted to brush her teeth. Richard’s toothbrush sat in a glass, looking lonely, much as hers did in her own flat. Using someone else’s toothbrush was an invasion of privacy, so she squeezed a bit of toothpaste onto her finger and scrubbed at her teeth that way. Not great, but better than nothing. 

She returned to find Richard setting plates of scrambled egg and toast on the table. She picked up the mug of coffee and inhaled the aroma. “Ahhh, you are my hero.”

Richard smiled at the sight of the still slightly disheveled Camille clutching the coffee as though it held the secret to life. He liked the idea of being her hero, even if it was just an expression of thanks for the coffee.

Over a second cup of coffee (for her) and tea (for him), Camille asked Richard about his experiences with Anderson. Richard told her some of the less mortifying stories.

“Did you challenge him?” she asked.

Richard looked down and sighed, “No.”

“Why not?”

“It was a no-win situation. He hadn’t actually done anything but make fun of me. You know what he’d have said—it was all in good fun, I couldn’t take a joke—and then when the Gov was out of the room, it would have got even worse.”

“Exactly. I can’t win, either, Richard.”

“But you’ve got sexual harassment rules on your side.”

“That’s hard to prove. He said, she said. I’m the newcomer, who’ll believe me?”

“I believe you. In that brief meeting with him, I witnessed several examples of inappropriate remarks. Carry a recorder, you’ll get something.”

“What did he say about me?”

“I don’t remember, exactly.” Richard blushed.

“Yes, you do. Tell me.”

“He said that you asked too many questions. That you were like—dammit, I wish I had a recording of that remark. We could have had him on two counts, racial prejudice and sexism.”

“Racial? He’s a sexist pig, yes, but I’ve never heard any racial slurs. Come on, Richard, now you have to tell me. I’m like WHAT?”

“He said you’re like me but with dark skin and tits.” Richard’s blush returned.

“I’m like you …”

“Ah, that makes three insults in one sentence.”

“No! Only two. If some of your investigating technique rubbed off on me, then I’m proud of that.” Camille smiled and reached over to squeeze Richard’s hand. “Really, I did learn from you. Even when you were driving me crazy, I could see how good you are. I had hoped that I’d get a partner here who could teach me a little more. Instead …”

“I know,” Richard squeezed her hand in return. “And it’s worse because you’re away from home and friends. Have you talked to your mother?”

“No, I don’t want her worry.” Camille blinked back tears and said, “You’re the only one I’ve been able to talk to about this.”

“What did you do on Saint Marie when you had problems to work out?”

“I would go to the beach, sit in the sand, watch the waves.”

“Right. Then that’s what we’re going to do.”

“But it’s FREEZING!”

“We’ll wear warm coats.”

Richard opened his laptop and took out his phone. Mouse in one hand, phone in the other, he set up his plan.

“How quickly can you get to your flat, pack an overnight bag, and meet me at London Bridge station?”

“Why?”

“You need a dose of sea air. It won’t be as warm as on Saint Marie, but it’s the best I can offer this time of year. Trains leave every half hour.”

“Overnight?”

“I’ve got an old friend from university, we can stay with them. Can you make the 11:42 train?”

Camille checked her watch. “I think so.”

“Brilliant! See you at the station. That’s London Bridge Train Station, not Tube.”

Camille waved her mobile at him. “I know. I’ve got the app!”


	11. Chapter 11

On the train, Richard told Camille about his friend, Sandra. “We met at uni. We dated for a while. In fact, I was her last hetero relationship. She realized she was in love with her roommate who, unfortunately for Sandra, was straight. It’s the only time I’ve heard the old ‘It isn’t you, it’s me’ line and it was true.”

“Oh, Richard, that must have been awkward.”

“Somehow, we managed to stay friends, and we kept in touch after graduation. You know how it is, you all promise to stay in touch, but you don’t. After a few years, she was the only one I was still in touch with. In a way, I’m glad about how things worked out with her. If she had left me for another man, it could have been ugly. As it was, we looked at it as an experiment that fizzled. I didn’t have the best of luck with women, and neither did she, so we commiserated. We became each other’s shoulder to cry on. I suppose that sounds weird.”

“No, I think it’s sweet. A lot of men would be threatened by a woman who discovered her orientation as a result of their relationship.”

Richard laughed, “Yes, I see what you mean. I was so bad she swore off men forever.”

“Did she actually say that?”

“No. And she would, if that’s what she thought. She’s like you that way, very direct, open. Her partner is a bit quieter, but lovely. And they’ve adopted a little girl. I haven’t been down to see them in several months.”

“Are you sure this is all right with them?”

“Yes, I talked to Sandra. They had no plans for the weekend and are delighted to have company.”

“So we’re going to Brighton?”

“Got that from your app, did you?”

“No, I read the departure board in the station. If it’s a seaside town, won’t most places be closed now?”

“A lot of the little seafront shops and cafes will be closed. But it’s a year-round home for many people, so some places will be open.

-o-o-o-o-

They were met at Brighton Station by a tall blonde. She hugged Richard, and to Camille’s amazement, he hugged her back. 

“You must be Camille,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Sandra. Richard says you need the ocean. Normally I’d suggest a junk lunch on the Promenade, but it would be better to eat inside. Then we can give you a look at our version of the seaside. Probably the best thing in this weather is a bench on the pier, rather than the beach. If it’s too chilly for you, I’ve got a rug in the car.”

When she paused for breath, Richard asked, “How’s Claire?”

“She’s taking Emily to a birthday party this afternoon. She says hello and is looking forward to seeing you again. My car is just there,” Sandra pointed to the car. 

“Thank you for meeting us and driving us. I’m sure you had other things to do this weekend,” said Camille.

“No, we spend Saturday mornings binging on chores and take the rest of the weekend to enjoy ourselves. We’re always happy to see Richard, and you’re most welcome. Now, I suppose he gave you the entire history of Brighton and Prinny.”

“No, he gave me the history of, um…”

“Us,” Richard supplied the missing word. “I figured I might as well tell her as have her quiz me the whole time. And, Sandra, I do wish you’d stop calling him Prinny. Prince of Wales or Prince Regent, if you please.”

“Historians!” Sandra huffed. “Oh, dear. Camille, I’m sorry if you studied history, too.”

“No. Criminal psychology. And you?”

“History. But only because it’s the usual thing before law.” Sandra parked the car and commented, “One good thing about the cooler weather, there’s always somewhere to park the car.”

They stood on the Promenade, and Sandra identified landmarks. 

“Ooh!” Camille squealed. “You have a wheel! I love Ferris wheels. Can we have a ride?”

“Yes, all right. I’ll get the tickets.”

Sandra watched Richard walk up to the ticket window. She’d been pleased when Richard asked to visit, but was surprised when he said he wanted to bring a friend. Camille must be something special if he was willing to ride the Wheel for her. He’d dismissed it as “tourist nonsense” on previous visits. This day was getting more interesting by the minute.

They settled into their capsule, and the recorded commentary began.

“Oh, ignore that,” said Sandra. “It’s silly bits and pieces. Just enjoy the view.”

“What is that building with the onion domes?” Camille pointed to a large building with surprisingly un-British architecture.

“It’s called the Royal Pavillion,” said Richard. “Built by the Prince of Wales, who was the son of George III and later became George IV. And he rebuilt it and rebuilt it. He kept redesigning it. He was Prince of Wales—that’s the first son of the monarch—for a long time, although for part of the time he was regent when his father was ill.”

“George III was the one who went crazy, right?” said Camille.

“He wasn’t crazy. Most likely he had porphyria, a genetic disease that causes bouts of mental instability, among other symptoms—”

“Richard!” Sandra scolded. “TMI. Camille, George III had a disease that made him unable to rule, so his son was appointed Regent, to rule in his place. The Prince Regent was an arbiter of style, somewhat of a dandy. He liked Brighton and his interest put the place on the map. All of his set had to visit Brighton. I think he kept his mistress nearby. There’s even a tunnel, supposedly so he could sneak out to visit her.”

“So he was Prince of Wales for a long time, had a mistress…” Camille said with eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, lots of people notice that,” Sandra grinned when Richard harrumphed. She whispered loudly to Camille. “He’s such a monarchist.”

On the last time around, Sandra pointed out various other buildings, including some churches and hotels.

“Oh! Do I see train tracks?” Camille pointed to the tracks that ran alongside the Promenade.

“Yes. It’s the Electric Railway. It isn’t running now. You’ll have to come back in better weather, and we’ll see if we can get Richard to agree to do something else touristy.”

After the ride, they found a bench and sat to watch the waves. After a while, Richard suggested that they find somewhere to eat.

“If you’re cold you can get yourself a cup of tea over there,” Sandra pointed to a café.

“And leave you two alone to talk about me?”

“Oooh, and doesn’t someone think he’s the center of the universe?” Sandra teased.

“You love to talk and Camille loves to pry. You two are a match made in heaven. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking when I suggested this.” Richard grumbled.

“All right, then. Let’s try this. Camille, you probably want a bit of time on your own, so Richard and I will go to the café and order lunch, and you can join us when you’ve finished communing with the sea.”

Camille watched the two old friends walk toward the café. She was pleased that Richard had such a good friend. She could see why he’d missed England so much. He fit in here. He was comfortable here. She turned back toward the sea. So different from Saint Marie. Grey pebbles instead of white sand. Promenades and crisply painted buildings instead of shacks and palm trees. And the sea was darker, not the turquoise of home. But the waves crashed onto the beach, their rhythm comforting. 

In the café, as soon as the waitress left their table, Sandra said, “So I finally get to meet your Camille.”

“She isn’t _my_ Camille.”

“Mm hmm. Well in any case, she’s lovely. And I think it’s sweet that she brings out your protective instincts.”

“I’m not protecting her. I can’t. I wish I could. You’ve heard my stories about Anderson, so you know what she’s up against. But she’s stuck working with him. I just want to help her stay sane.”

Sandra smiled. Richard could be so sweet sometimes. “You look good in shining armor.”

Before Richard could reply, the waitress arrived with their tea and took their food order. When she left, he turned the conversation to Emily to avoid further probing.

Camille arrived, and said, “Mon dieu, it’s cold out.”

“We ordered coffee for you. That will warm you up,” said Sandra. 

Camille wrapped her hands around the large cup and breathed in the steamy aroma. “Mmm, that’s nice. Thank you both. I do feel better. There’s something about the sea that restores my spirits.”


	12. Chapter 12

After lunch, Richard, Camille, and Sandra strolled along the Promenade. 

“Would you like to walk out on the pier?” Richard asked Camille.

“The rock shop is closed, Richard. Anyway, it’s too windy,” said Sandra before Camille could answer.

“I never knew you were interested in geology,” said Camille.

“Not rocks, rock,” laughed Sandra. “It’s candy. Our Richard has quite a sweet tooth.”

“I know!” said Camille. “He used to keep a tin of some kind of gummy candy in his desk.”

“Ah yes, Jelly Babies. That’s easier to sneak than rock.”

Several steps later, Camille stopped walking and turned to see Richard standing some distance behind them. Sandra stopped, too, and called to Richard, “What?”

“I’d rather not listen to the two of you talk about me.”

“Don’t sulk,” said Sandra in her best Mum voice. “It’s time to go home.”

-o-o-o-o-

When they arrived, Claire and Emily were in the kitchen baking cookies.

“Mmm, it smells delicious in here!” said Richard.

“Richard!” Emily began to run toward him.

“No!” cried Claire as she grabbed her daughter by the back of her shirt. “You’ve got flour all over yourself. Don’t get it on Richard!”

“I think I’ll skip hugs from both of you,” said Sandra, leaning down to kiss the top of Emily’s head. To Claire she said, “More sugar? She didn’t get enough at the party?”

“She wanted to make something for our guests, and the dough was in the freezer, so I caved. But I’ve got lots of healthy stuff for our supper.”

Richard introduced Camille to Claire and Emily. While Richard listened to Emily chatter about the party she’d been to, Camille looked around. It was a dream kitchen. Long work top along one wall and an island in the middle of the room. The other wall was lined with cabinets and there was a space for a child-sized table, which held coloring books, crayons, and a few dolls. The conservatory had a cozy window seat and a table surrounded by Windsor chairs.

“Your kitchen is amazing,” she said. “You’ve got so much space here.”

“It’s kind of out of proportion to the rest of the house,” said Sandra. “But we wanted a living space that we’d all enjoy, and we both love to cook. So we pushed out the back of the house and also added the conservatory. Even on a cloudy day it feels bright in here.”

Sandra led the way upstairs. “Richard, you’re in the guest room. Camille, I hope you don’t mind sharing with Emily. She’s quite excited to have a quest, and insisted on using the special sheets.”

Richard looked over Camille’s shoulder as the two women stood in the doorway to Emily’s room. A blonde Disney character smiled up from the pillowcases.

“We’re very into ‘Frozen’ around here,” said Sandra.

“What’s frozen? Or should I say who?” asked Richard.

“It’s a Disney film,” Sandra replied. “Honestly, Richard, you should try to keep up with a bit of pop culture. It’s enormously popular.”

“Yes, even on Saint Marie we’ve heard of it,” Camille agreed. “Back home I’ve seen little girls in Elsa dress-up outfits.”

Richard sighed and went into the guest room to unpack.

-o-o-o-o-

Richard returned to the kitchen in time to overhear the end of a conversation.

“Yes, that one is authentic, but it will be too spicy for Richard,” said Camille.

“I don’t have the right chilies anyway,” said Claire. “But I have the makings for these stews. I even found coconut milk. It’s probably better with fresh, but it’s the best I can do.”

“It should work with the canned. Just back off a bit on the ginger. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble. At least let me help.”

“Okay, grate ginger or chop onions?”

“Ginger.”

Claire began to get out ingredients. She handed the ginger and a grater to Camille, who perched on one of the stools at the island and set to work.

“What are you cooking now?” Richard asked as he picked up the recipe.

“It’s a Caribbean casserole,” said Sandra. Seeing Richard’s look of alarm, she added, “Nothing scary. Camille’s told us how to cut down the spices so it won’t overwhelm your delicate palate. Now, pull up a stool and start peeling the sweet potatoes.”

Richard did as he was told, and the four adults chatted while they prepared the ingredients. 

“Camille?” Emily called from her little work table. “Is this right?”

Camille turned to look at the drawing Emily held up.

“Perfect.”

“Good, I’ll do some more.”

“Is that a palm tree?” Richard asked.

“Camille misses her home, so we’re making our home like hers. See?” Emily showed Richard the drawing.

“It’s very good.”

“Camille showed me a picture on her mobile and I copied it.”

“I wish I had a picture of your lizard,” Camille said to Richard. “Then Emily could make a drawing of him.”

“What? Richard had a lizard?” Sandra asked.

“It wasn’t _mine_ exactly,” Richard replied. “It lived in my house. But I didn’t have it in a cage like a pet. It just showed up sometimes.”

“Free-range lizard,” Sandra chuckled. “You told us about the chickens, but not about the lizard.”

“Oh? Didn’t I? He startled me at first, dashing about the way they do. But I got used to him. Is he still there, Camille?”

“I don’t think so. He startled Ricketts, too, and I think Ricketts managed to chase him away. But don’t worry, he’s a wild creature, he can fend for himself.”

While the women continued to work on supper, Richard helped Emily decorate the conservatory with her drawings. He looked back into the kitchen when he heard laughter. Camille was telling a story about Dwayne, and Richard watched her gesture and smile. He was pleased that this day was working out so well. It felt good to see Camille look happy.

-o-o-o-o-

Sandra looked at the clock and said, “I think it’s somebody’s bedtime.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to yawn,” said Richard.

“No, not you Richard. Although you’re free to call it a night whenever you wish. But _somebody else_ had a very busy day. And I think we all know who that is.”

“Camille?” Emily suggested.

“Nice try, Sweet Pea,” said Sandra. “But you know who I mean. Come on, let’s get you ready for bed.”

“Ohhh kaaay. But may I have a story?”

“A short one.”

“Can Camille read it to me?”

“I’d love to,” Camille replied. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Well, that’s me put in my place,” said Richard. “Last time I was here, I was the chosen one.”

“Don’t sulk,” said Sandra over her shoulder as she herded her daughter up the stairs.

“It’s only because I’m new to her,” said Camille, trying to soothe Richard’s hurt feelings.

“No, it’s because I’m not good at it. Apparently, one has to do lots of different voices and sound effects.”

“She does like a bit of drama,” Claire agreed. “We try to pick soothing stories for bedtime. No monsters or anything that could induce a nightmare. I expect you’ve noticed that ‘Frozen’ is quite popular with our little princess. So she’ll probably ask you to read a story about that.”

“Disney does rake it in with the licensed products, don’t they?” said Richard.

“You have no idea, Richard. Just go into a Toys R Us and you’ll see. You could go broke buying all that stuff. She has books, the DVD, a doll, and the sheets. And we’re drawing the line there. We try not to spoil her, but it’s hard not to. Given our situation, it isn’t easy to adopt, so we were lucky to get her. She’ll probably be an only child, so there’s a temptation to give her stuff instead of sibs.”

“Your audience awaits,” Sandra announced. Then to Camille, she said in a stage whisper, “Is he sulking?”

“No, I am NOT sulking,” said Richard petulantly. The three women laughed, which did not lighten his mood.

Camille went upstairs and Claire turned to Richard and said, “She’s delightful! I’m so glad you brought her here.”

“I am, too. She hasn’t made a lot of friends in London, and I knew you’d be good for her. Thank you for taking us in on short notice. I think I’ll go up and get ready for bed. That will leave the bath free for Camille whenever she wants it.”

After Richard was out of earshot, Sandra said, “Maybe I should have put them both in the guest room.”

“No,” Claire shook her head. “Richard would be too embarrassed. And I don’t think it’s reached that stage.”

“I wonder if it will. You know how he is.”

“She’s good for him. It’s too bad she’ll be going back to Saint Marie. I think that’s when it will hit him and he’ll realize how he feels about her.”


	13. Chapter 13

Emily declared Camille to be a brilliant reader, then snuggled under the covers, curled up with her teddy bear. Camille looked back at the child as she left the room. She wondered if she would ever have a child of her own. She was beginning to admit that her annoyance at all those blind dates was due to her realization that she still hadn’t found a life partner, someone to be a father to her children. One of the downsides to being a cop was being called to domestic disputes and seeing so many unhappy people. Seeing Sandra and Claire with Emily reminded her of Fidel and Juliet and Rosie. Happiness was possible. Now, if only she could figure out how to find it for herself.

She closed the door and turned to see Richard emerging from the bathroom. 

“I’m, um, going to bed now,” he said. “The bath is all yours.”

“Thanks.” Camille reached out and touched the sleeve of Richard’s pajamas. With a cheeky smile she said, “I’ve missed seeing these.”

“Yes, well, um, goodnight Camille.”

“Bonne nuit, Richard. Sleep well.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille joined Sandra and Claire downstairs, and the conversation soon turned to Richard. 

“I suspect I know the answer to this,” said Sandra. “But tell us what Richard was like on Saint Marie.”

“In a word, cranky. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to work with me, and at first he treated me like a subordinate, not a partner.” She grinned and continued, “But I let him know that was not acceptable.”

Claire laughed and said, “Yup, that’s pretty much what I expected to hear. His emails were rants. The sand, the heat, the bugs, the spicy food, the shellfish...” 

“Me,” Camille added.

“Mixed reviews,” said Sandra. “There were rants, yes. You were irritating, insubordinate. irrational. But also intuitive, dedicated. And, although he never said it, a little scary.”

“Scary?”

“You and the others tried to befriend him, and he didn’t know how to deal with that. He doesn’t make friends easily, doesn’t know how to fit in.”

“Yes we did try, but he resisted our attempts. We’d invite him to have a drink with us at the end of the day, but he’d go home instead. It was as if he was trying to live a London life in the Tropics. Do you know that he always wore a suit?”

“No, but I’m not surprised,” Sandra replied. “He sticks to what he knows.”

“He was on Saint Marie for almost a year and today was the first time I’ve seen him in casual clothing.”

“That’s because of Sandra,” said Claire. “Suits and ties are banned unless it’s a very special occasion.”

“And he does what you say?”

“You said he told you about us, right?” said Sandra. “Well, somehow we traded a failed romance for a sibling kind of relationship. He’s the brother I never had. I’m the sister—now _we’re_ the sisters—he never had. So I boss him around like a sister. But he knows it’s done with love and he accepts that.”

“He comes here to get away from the stress and tedium of his life,” said Claire. “He trusts us, which isn’t easy for him. He’s afraid that people will be nice only long enough to set him up to be the butt of jokes. Has he told you about Croyden?”

“You mean Anderson? Yes, he told me about some of Anderson’s jokes. And believe me, I’ve seen it in Southwark. His current target is a guy whose wife just left him. It isn’t enough that Peter is heartbroken, he has to be teased about it.” Camille told Sandra and Claire about the Pumpkin Eater jokes and her nicknames, like Beach Babe and Island Girl.

“Tomorrow we’re going shopping,” said Claire. “You need a mini recorder. Get proof of what he does. If you don’t want to make a complaint, you can at least use it to get a transfer.”

-o-o-o-o-

Sunday morning, Richard woke early. He went downstairs to fix some tea, and was soon joined by Sandra and Claire. They were sipping tea when Emily bounded into the room.

“Guess what? Camille’s nightie is ‘Frozen,’ like my sheets!”

“Camille has a nightie?” Richard began and quickly added, “Um, that’s like your sheets?”

Seeing his blush, Sandra and Claire exchanged glances. There was a story here!

“Let’s get you some juice,” said Claire to Emily, giving Sandra a chance to question Richard.

“Why are you surprised that Camille has a nightie?”

“I, um, well, Emily said it was like the sheets, and um, that is…”

“And you haven’t seen that one?”

“No, I haven’t. Seen any of them. Not that she has many.”

“Ah, so you know how many she has?”

“No, I—oh, all right. She once told me that she sleeps naked. There, are you satisfied?”

“Richard, you look kind of red,” said Emily as she set her glass of juice on the table. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Just a bit warm.” 

Camille joined the others and said, “Good morning. Am I the last one down?”

“Only by a few minutes,” said Sandra.

“Yes, I just got up,” said Emily. “I was telling them that you have a ‘Frozen’ nightie.”

Camille glanced at Richard and noticed that he looked uncomfortable. Did he remember what she’d said about sleeping naked? She smiled at Emily and said, “I don’t think it’s an official ‘Frozen’ nightie. My mother gave it to me as a gift for my time here in England so that I’d be warm for sleeping. She thought the snowflakes were funny because we don’t have snow on Saint Marie.”

“Not ever?” Emily’s eyes were wide.

“Not ever,” Camille replied. “It’s very warm on Saint Marie. You know how warm it is here in the summer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s hotter on Saint Marie.”

“Much hotter,” Richard added.

“No rants, please,” said Sandra. “Breakfast is ready.”

-o-o-o-o-

After breakfast, Claire made copies of the Sunday crossword. She, Sandra, and Richard sat at the table working independently, each trying to be the first to finish it. Emily sat at her table, drawing. And Camille sat on the window seat, enjoying the morning sunshine. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Richard glanced up from his puzzle and gazed at her. 

Claire noticed that Richard had stopped muttering and writing. She looked at him and followed his line of sight. Then she nudged Sandra, who smiled and nodded. She wondered when Richard would figure it out.

-o-o-o-o-

As the family “techie,” Claire took Richard and Camille shopping on the way to the train station. They found a tiny recorder that Camille could turn on easily without having to remove it from her pocket. Claire made sure that Camille had phone numbers and email addresses so she could stay in touch with her new friends.

On the train, Camille practiced using her recorder. She asked Richard to explain again about the Prince of Wales who built the Royal Pavilion. She nodded at appropriate intervals as he lectured, and turned the recorder on and off, capturing part of what he said. To keep him talking, she asked about the order of succession.

“Who was king after George?”

“His brother.”

“Not his son?”

“No surviving children to inherit the throne, so it went to his brother.”

“Oh. What about now? Prince Charles, and then who?”

“After the present monarch, it’s Charles, William, George, Charlotte, Harry, Andrew, Beatrice, Eugenie, Edward, then Edward’s two children, then Anne, then her children, um—”

“How do you keep track of the order?”

“There’s a pattern. It goes straight down the line of first-borns, and if you run out of them, it goes laterally, like George IV’s brother following him.”

“What about Harry? Doesn’t he come after William?”

“Not now that William has children. William would be followed by George, and then George’s children. If George didn’t have children, his sister would be next. And if she had no children, it would move up a generation and start with siblings in that generation, in this case Harry. If you visualize a genealogy chart, it’s easy to follow.”

“If you say so. But if I ever want to know, I’ve got your explanation.” Camille took the recorder out of her pocket and played back part of Richard’s lecture.

“I didn’t know you were recording me.”

“Exactly! I needed to practice turning it on without being noticed.”

“You’d make a good spy, Camille.”

“Ah, remember, I have done undercover work.”

“So you have. And I blew your cover. I don’t believe I ever apologized for that. So, rather late, let me say sorry for that. I know you didn’t want to have a regular detective assignment.” Richard paused and said, “Or me for a partner.”

“You didn’t want me, either. But we did manage to work well together. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if you’d stayed longer. But I understand why you wanted to come back here. You’re different here. Less cranky, obviously. But more than that. I can see that you feel you belong here. You’ve got friends, your local, your food, your tea. This is home for you. Saint Marie never was. So in response to your apology, let me say sorry, too. You’ve been so kind, so supportive. I didn’t do enough to help you fit in, feel more at home on Saint Marie. I wish I’d done more.”

The train slowed and Camille recognized her station. “This is me. Thank you for… for everything. For being so kind, for sharing your friends with me. For being a friend.”

She hugged Richard, grabbed her overnight bag and dashed for the door. As the train pulled away, Richard thought about what Camille said. Would anything have happened if he’d stayed on Saint Marie longer?


	14. Chapter 14

On Monday morning, when Camille saw Anderson Doug approaching, she started the recorder.

“Morning, Camille. How was Brighton?”

Camille almost choked on her coffee. “Brighton?” 

“Yes, isn’t that where you were this weekend?”

“How do you know that?”

“I drove by your flat, and it was dark.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was in the neighborhood. When it was dark for a second night, I was concerned for your safety, so I stopped in here and checked your gps. It said you were in Brighton.”

“Yes, I, uh, wanted to visit the sea.”

“In winter? Sure you weren’t visiting a lover?”

“No. Just a train ride to look at the ocean.”

“Where did you stay?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I ask only because there are some very nice hotels there. Of course, you do have to be careful. Some of them are run by, well, you know.” He made a limp-wristed gesture. 

“Excuse me? What does that mean?”

“Come on, Camille, you know what I mean. But I do know some that are run by normal people who know the kind of accommodations a couple want. So the next time you want to go to the seaside, let me know.”

“No thanks. But maybe you should think about taking your wife.”

“No, she hates Brighton. But I don’t mind it, even off season. So, you know, think about it.”

Anderson swaggered away to get some coffee. Camille turned off the recorder. Damn, but the man was clever. He never directly invited her to go to Brighton with him. He just implied it. It was like so many of his sly comments. It was all down to her interpretation.

-o-o-o-o-

While Anderson went to the pub for lunch, Camille ran some errands. First stop was a florist. Second stop was a convenience store. Third stop was a courier service.

-o-o-o-o-

As a freelance forensic accountant, Claire often worked at home. She was taking a break for lunch when her mobile buzzed. She didn’t recognize the number, but she could see the first line, “It’s Camille.” So she opened he message. _It’s Camille. I had to get a new mobile. Please call me on this number._

Claire made the call and Camille answered quickly.

_“Claire? I hope I did the right thing.”_

“What’s wrong, Camille? Did you lose your mobile?”

_“No. I still have it. But I’m afraid to use it. Anderson pinged my mobile and he knows I went to Brighton for the weekend.”_

“Are you serious?”

_“Yes! I said I wanted to see the ocean, and then he sort of said he’d take me if I wanted to go again.”_

“Please tell me you got that on your recorder!”

_“I did. But if you listen to it, it could be explained away as just joking.”_

“Sandra is the lawyer, so I can’t say for sure, but the fact that he pinged your mobile for no good reason seems stalkerish to me. You’re right to get a new mobile, but keep the old one, too. Use it as you always have. Call your Mum, make work calls, order pizza, whatever. But for personal calls to Richard and to us use the new one. I don’t know if he’ll try to get a list of your calls, but as a police detective he can ask for it. So if he does, he’ll see nothing unusual. And get a new email. Gmail, yahoo, a service you don’t already have. Use that for personal emails to us. It sounds ragingly paranoid, but this guy is creepy.”

_“Thank you for taking this seriously. I thought I might be over-reacting.”_

“It isn’t over-reacting, it’s self-preservation. Have you told Richard?”

_“No. I’ll call him tonight. Thank you, Claire.”_

-o-o-o-o-

Richard returned to the office after a visit to a crime scene, and discovered a gift bag sitting on his desk. He read the courier’s label to make sure it was for him, then shook it gently, wondering what was inside.

“Is it your birthday?” asked Chet. 

“No,” Richard replied as he pulled on the bag to release the staples that held it shut. He smiled when he looked inside. He extracted two bags of jelly babies and found the note. It said, _“I couldn’t find any rock, so these will have to do. THANK YOU! C”_

“Gift from a girlfriend?” asked Mike.

“No, just a thank-you gift from a friend who’s having some problems at work. I know a good lawyer who does harassment cases and I put them in touch.” To distract his colleagues from asking any more questions, he opened a bag and offered the treats.

“Ugh, too sweet!” said Mike as Chet helped himself to an orange candy. Richard took a red one and quickly popped it into his mouth so that he’d be unable to answer any questions.

His phone rang, and he answered it with a mumbled, “Poole.”

_“Ah, I gather the package arrived,”_ laughed Camille.

“Yes,” Richard swallowed and said more clearly, “it did. I was going to call you. I’ve updated our virtual whiteboard. I’d like to have a brainstorming session. I prefer to do it in person, but we’re supposed to be using technology, so perhaps I can get everyone on a conference call.”

_“Before you do that, here’s new information. Our victim has been identified. He’s Martin Dyer. His wife was away for a few weeks visiting her mother. When she got home, the mail was in a heap inside the slot, the plants were wilted, and the neighbors hadn’t seen him in days. So she called the police. I’m going to interview her now. Do you want to come along?”_

“I trust you to handle it. Add your notes to the site, and if there’s anything more I want to know, we can interview her again together. Good work, Camille.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard was watching his computer shut down when his phone rang. “Bow Street, DCI Poole speaking.”

_“Richard, hi! I wasn’t sure I’d get you at work.”_

“Yeah, last one here. Old habits die hard.”

_“I’ve got good news. Mrs. Dyer was a big help. I didn’t want to show her the photos of the dead men, so I asked her if she had any photos of her husband with friends or colleagues. She had a picture of a company picnic, and I recognized two other victims. I was able to take a picture with my mobile. I’m going to upload it to the white board.”_

“Could you send it to my mobile, too? I just shut down my computer. Sorry to make you work late, but I’d like you to get credit for this break. So please send out an email to the other detectives. You have all their addresses, right?”

_“Yes, I do.”_

“Excellent work, Camille. It was kind of you to find a way to work around showing Mrs. Dyer the pictures of the other victims. So tell the detectives who have IDs for their victims to go ahead and contact families. And what company did the victims work for?”

_“Medical supplies.”_

“Okay. Since the floater hasn’t been ID’d yet, have that detective research the company.”

_“You’re sort of putting me in charge of DIs, Richard. Is that all right?”_

“Say that I asked you to update everyone and to pass on my instructions. Gosh, you’re getting so tactful. When did that happen?”

_“Since I wanted to make you proud of me. And while we’re talking, I have something else to tell you.”_

“What’s that?”

_“I bought a new mobile today. Just a cheap flip-phone for personal use. Anderson pinged my mobile and found out I went to Brighton over the weekend.”_

“WHAT?”

_“Don’t get angry, Richard. I got him saying that on my recorder. It’s a start on building a case. I’ve talked to Claire and she said the new mobile was a good idea. So I’ll make personal calls on the new one and business calls on the old one, just in case he checks my call records.”_

“What the hell is he up to?”

_“I think it’s just mind games. Too bad for him, he’s up against a group of minds much better than his.”_

“Be careful around him, Camille.”

_“Don’t worry, I will. Good night, Richard.”_

“Good night, Camille.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille looked at her collection of electronics. Her smartphone, flip-phone, mini-recorder were lined up on the worktop in her kitchenette, chargers and cords like spaghetti tossed onto the surface. Her laptop needed charging, too, but she’d have to wait for one of the other devices to be fully charged. She wrote herself a note to buy a power bar.

Her new mobile vibrated and she grabbed it.

“Hello?”

_“Camille, it’s Sandra. Before I go into feminist rant mode, I want to thank you for the flowers. It was sweet of you to send them, but you didn’t have to.”_

“You’re welcome. Now, what do you want to rant about?”

_“Anderson! I can’t believe he did that! Good on you to go right out and get this new mobile. God, he really is…” Sandra ranted about Anderson in language that was definitely not appropriate for a child to hear._

“Sandra! Do you always talk like this around Emily?”

_“She’s having a bath. Claire said to get this out of my system by the time they’re done upstairs.”_

“Oh. Well, I agree that he’s all that you say and more. Ugh! It makes my skin crawl just to think about him.”

_“Just be careful and patient. It takes time to build a case. But we’ll nail that bastard!”_


	15. Chapter 15

Camille and Richard visited the offices of Fenmore Medical Supplies the next day. After talking to HR and various department heads, they learned what their victims had in common. All but one were researchers or Quality Control technicians who had testified in liability lawsuits. Dyer, the victim from Southwark, was a barrister. He had defended the company in a suit brought by a man whose brace had been faulty, leaving him with chronic back problems. The brace had been made by Fenmore. Frederick Egan lost his suit, and the next day went to Fenmore’s offices and threatened several employees. Of the handful of lawsuits and people with complaints against Fenmore, Egan appeared to be the strongest suspect, as he had a connection with all of the victims. 

Camille spent the rest of the day investigating Egan, and after consulting with Richard, brought Egan into the station for questioning the following morning. She greeted Richard when he arrived.

“Good morning, Sir. We’ve got Egan in an interview room. I waited for you to get here before starting.”

“That’s fine. I’d like you to take the lead in the interview. All part of your training.” Richard looked around and said, “Where’s Anderson?”

“He’s gone to Manchester again. So it’s a good day all around. DI Harrington went with me to take Egan in, so could he sit in? Let him see you in action? It would be a treat for him, after working with Anderson.”

Richard agreed and the three detectives sat down opposite their suspect. Richard slowly set out the photographs of the victims as if he was dealing out a game of solitaire. Then he leaned back in his chair and gestured to Camille to begin the questions. After a half hour of questions, Richard and Camille were convinced that they had their murderer, but they didn’t have strong proof.

During a lull in the questioning, Peter Harrington cleared his throat and said, “You know, Mr. Egan, I understand how you feel.”

Richard and Camille looked at Harrington in surprise.

Harrington continued, “I did a lot of sports in school, and I saw a fair number of injuries. A few of them ended up being long-term. It sucks when the medical treatment that’s supposed to fix the injury makes it worse.”

“Damn right!” Egan exploded. “They don’t care at all about the patient. I’ll never have full strength in that arm, or stand straight. And some bloody judge says they aren’t responsible. Well if not them, who? So I thought I’d be my own judge and make my own sentence.”

“Dyer first?” asked Harrington.

“Lawyers!” Egan spat. “I hate lawyers. Yeah, he was first. I waited outside his office on a foggy night. It was perfect. He was working late, there was nobody around. It was easier than I expected.”

“Why did you move the body?”

“They all treated me like a nobody. So I took his ID and dumped him like he was a nobody.”

Richard stood and said, “Frederick Egan, I am arresting you for murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

They left Egan in the interview room while they arranged to have his home and car searched. 

“I hope you don’t mind me stepping in like that,” said Harringon. “I know it was a gamble, but you two weren’t getting far, and I thought maybe someone who seemed to be on his side would disarm him.”

“It certainly worked,” said Camille.

“Yes, it did,” Richard agreed. “Well done, Harrington. Camille, I’m putting you in charge of the search.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No. You need experience in leading a team. I know you can do it, so go show the Met that you can. Let me know if you find the murder weapon.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille handed the evidence bag to a Crime Scene officer and took out her mobile. Richard answered on the second ring.

_“Bow Street, DCI Poole.”_

“Richard!” she squealed. “We struck gold!”

_“What did you find?”_

“A garotte in the trunk of his car. Also a canvas tarp that he probably used to move the bodies. And Peter is going through some files we found in the house. Bios of the victims, stalker kind of stuff.”

_“You took Harrington with you?”_

“Yes. I figured he helped break Egan, I owed him a little time out of the office. It is so nice to be working without you-know-who. Check your mobile, I’m going to send you a photo.”

_“Right. Um, good work Camille.”_

“We’re about done here. I’ll call you later.” Camille ended the call and looked at her mobile quizzically. Richard had sounded odd. He often said good work or well done, but this time it sounded like an afterthought, as if he was thinking about something else. 

-o-o-o-o-

“Richard?”

“Hmm?”

“The body?” Chet held out a crime scene photo from a cold case they were reviewing. Why was Richard so distracted? “Doesn’t the position of the body look odd?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. He looks like he fell down a flight of stairs, but he’s in the middle of the room, nowhere near the stairs.”

“Exactly.”

“And there was no mention of that in—sorry.” Richard picked up his buzzing mobile. He opened the message and saw the picture Camille sent. She and Harrington were holding the ends of the garrote and grinning. Richard frowned.

“Something wrong?” Chet asked.

“Hmm? No, nothing. So nobody commented on the position of the body. Are there other pictures of the scene?”

The two detectives spent the next ten minutes going through photos. Chet could see that something was bothering Richard, so he said he needed a break and went to get a cup of coffee.

Richard took out his mobile and sent a text.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille was finishing her notes for the day when her mobile buzzed. She frowned when she saw Richard’s text. _I hope you took photos in situ before you started playing with it. At least you had gloves on._ Now, why would he be so cranky? He should be pleased that they’d found the bloody murder weapon. She smiled in spite of herself when she realized that she was picking up Britcop speak, as she called it.

She uploaded the notes and picked up her mobile to answer Richard’s text. _Pic was just 4 u. Notes on ftp. SOCA will post pix. Meet 4 drink?_

It was nearly five O’clock and Richard hadn’t replied to her text. So Camille phoned him. 

_“Poole.”_

“Richard, did you get my text? I had a tech use my mobile to take that picture. It isn’t part of the official record. The SOCA team took plenty of pictures, as we found evidence. We weren’t playing with the garrote. Really, Richard, you know me better than that!”

_“It was irresponsible and frivolous. Probably the result of being in the same station as Anderson.”_

“Ohhhkayyy. I’m not going to answer that. But I will give you the opportunity to buy me a drink as an apology.”

_“Sorry. Where do you have in mind?”_

“Duck and Dog on Borough High Street. It’s about a block from your bus route.”

_“I should be able to find it. Why there?”_

“Peter says it’s nice, and it’s far enough from the station that we won’t find any of the slackers there. We’ll meet you there.”

_“Oh, I, uh, don’t know.”_

“Yes, you’re coming! It’s only a short walk from your bus.”

_“You’ll have Harrington for company, so you don’t need—”_

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Richard. It isn’t a date. He was pleased when I said I was going to call you.” When Richard didn’t answer right away, she said, “Don’t make me go all the way to Bow Street and drag you to the pub. I miss going for drinks with Dwayne and Fidel. Come on, be part of the team.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard hung up his coat and sank into his favorite chair. The evening at the pub had been pleasant, but he couldn’t shake off a feeling of being old. Peter Harrington kept calling him ‘sir’ until Camille convinced him that it would be acceptable to call the senior officer by his first name after work hours. 

Camille had been kind in her selection of stories about Saint Marie, avoiding Richard’s suits, general grumpiness, or frank and honest discussions with the Commissioner. Her stories about Dwayne were funny. Her stories about Fidel were sweet. Her stories about him were neither. He was boring. And looking at Camille and Harrington, who were about the same age, Richard felt old. Perhaps on his own with Camille, it wasn't so noticeable. But with Harrington for contrast, Richard felt decidedly old. 

He didn’t care if Harrington thought he was old. But Camille… her opinion mattered. Now, how to “youthen” his image?


	16. Chapter 16

When Camille saw that Anderson was out again, she made her decision. She’d had a long talk with Sandra and Claire the night before. After reviewing Camille’s recordings, they all agreed that a charge of harassment might be difficult to win. But the recordings might buy her a little leverage. 

One should always negotiate from a position of strength, and after solving a big case, Camille felt she felt her position was as strong as it would ever be.

“Sir?” she knocked on the doorframe of the Superintendent’s office. 

“Bordey, good work on that strangling case.”

“Thank you, sir. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Of course, come in.” he gestured to a chair and Camille sat down. 

“I want to apply for a transfer.”

“No.”

“I’m here in London to learn, and I feel I’ve learned all I can here. A variety of assignments would give me more experience.”

“No.”

“I can request a transfer without your approval. I was hoping to do this politely.”

“Is there a threat implied here, Bordey?”

“No, sir. I would like to do this without stirring up trouble.” Camille took out her recorder and hit _play_. A minute later, she hit _stop_ and said, “The truth is that I have been very uncomfortable working with Anderson. You can give me a different partner, but I’d still have to put up with his remarks at the station. I made the recording only to show you how bad it is. There’s more if you want to hear it?”

“No, I believe you.”

“Sir, I’m not stupid. I know that being a whistle-blower could end any hope I have of advancement. I don’t want to use this,” Camille held up the recorder. “I want to apply for a transfer so that I can broaden my experience. I’d appreciate your support. I’m not asking you to make Anderson change his ways. He’s your problem. I don’t want him to be mine any longer.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard sat at his desk with a sandwich and a copy of _Time Out_ on his desk and a London tourism site open on his computer. Anything that looked “young” also seemed incomprehensible. Dear God, was he really that out of touch? 

He had already discarded any ideas of doing something Caribbean in nature. While it might be good for Camille’s homesickness, he’d probably make a poor choice. He’d always thought that the French half was the more dominant influence in her personality. Hadn’t he once said that there’s no such thing as “half French?” So something French, but what? Not a French restaurant, too boring, too “old.” 

Maybe he should just pick something at random. He flipped through _Time Out_ again, and something caught his eye. Not his taste, but he supposed he could survive it. The article said it was a hot ticket, but he wasn’t worried. He could get them in. He opened the website and read the description. Then a Google search, then a little reading. Yes, this looked good! He picked up his phone.

_“Southwark Police Station, DS Bordey.”_

“Camille, it’s Richard. How are you?”

_“What, did you think I’d be hung over from last night?”_

“No, just asking the conventional question. Is Anderson there?”

_“No, so it’s another good day at work.”_

“I’m glad to hear it. Um, are you free on Saturday?”

_“Yes.”_

“Good. I have a surprise for you.”

_“What is it?”_

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

_“But you hate surprises.”_

“When I’m on the receiving end. But I thought I might enjoy surprising you.”

Mike returned from lunch to hear Richard on the phone. It sounded like… flirting? He stood quietly where Richard couldn’t see him and listened.

Richard clicked his mouse and said, “I’ll meet you at yours around 11:00. How’s that?”

_“Okay, what should I wear?”_

“Whatever you like.”

_“Richard! That doesn’t help. Do I need to dress like work?”_

“No. London casual is fine.”

_“What is THAT supposed to mean?”_

“Well, if I simply said casual, you might think Caribbean casual and—”

_“Richard! It’s winter! Caribbean casual is out of the question. Okay, I’ll figure out something, and if you don’t think it’s appropriate, I can change. And I will have a surprise for you, too.”_

“What is it?”

_“Noooo, that would be telling. See you Saturday. Bye!”_

“Camille!” But it was too late. She had already ended the call.

“Camille, eh?” said Mike as he crossed over to his desk. “Is this the old friend who sent you candy? Not the same Camille you worked with in the Caribbean, by any chance?”

Richard sighed. The problem with working with detectives was that they always asked questions. “Yes, it’s that Camille. She’s working in London and finding it dreary, so I wanted to cheer her up a bit.”

“Uh huh,” said Mike knowingly. “Sounds like a date to me.”

-o-o-o-o-

Sue Richards, the Met’s head of Human Resources sat at her desk, glaring at her computer screen. If she heard or read about Saint Marie one more time, she would definitely start throwing things. 

Later that afternoon, she sat down with the head of the Metropolitan Police Force.

“What’s the problem, Ms. Richards?”

“Sir, what do you know about Saint Marie?”

“Are we talking about a church or the island?”

“The island.”

“Complicated history, bounced between England and France. Somehow ended up belonging to the Netherlands, and they gave it back to us.”

“Well, I wish they hadn’t. It has become a staffing nightmare.”

“How so?”

“For about two years, DI Hulme was out there. Then he was murdered—ironically, by a local policewoman. DI Poole was sent out to investigate the murder, and the local Commissioner of Police asked to keep Poole. After ten months, Poole got himself transferred back to London. DCI Ricketts was on Saint Marie at the time, so the Commissioner asked to keep Ricketts. Now Rickets wants out. He emails my office once a week.”

“What’s so bad about this place? It’s bloody freezing and drizzly here this time of year. Why does nobody want to stay there?”

“Hulme liked it, but unfortunately, he’s dead. Poole hated the heat, the sand, and the lack of decent tea. Among other things. Ricketts can’t stand the heat and doesn’t think the team is very good. Oh, by the way, Poole thought the team was excellent, so mixed reviews there.”

“I see.”

“The DS in Honore, a Camille Bordey, has asked to be considered for the job of Chief. Her point is that English Inspectors haven’t had a good track record, so why not let a local run the station.”

“There’s some logic to that. But haven’t we always placed British detectives in top positions?”

“Yes, but it isn’t a written rule, just past practice. However, she’s only a DS. She’s here in London, doing some training for six months. If her evaluations are good, I suggest we promote her and let her have the station. We could always send a British DS to keep the presence there.”

“Right. That sounds like a good plan. Tell Ricketts to hang on until DS—sorry?”

“Bordey.”

“Bordey. Tell him to hang on until she finishes her training, and then he can come home and she can go back to Saint Marie. How is she doing?”

“Not great. She says it's to broaden her experience, but when I called to talk to her she said--off the record--that she was uncomfortable with some of her colleagues.”

“Hmmm, that doesn’t bode well. A chief has to find ways to work with everyone on the team. Where has she asked to go?”

“Anywhere that isn’t Southwark.”

“All right. Find somewhere else for her. Look for a station with at least one other woman detective. Maybe Southwark was too testosterone driven for her taste. Bordey? French? I don’t know, maybe look for a station that has somebody French. Failing that, call the Home Office and see if we can give the bloody island back to the French. Or the Dutch. Just make it go away. None of our other territories gives me this much trouble.”


	17. Chapter 17

Richard was almost ready to leave his flat when his mobile rang. He looked at the caller ID and immediately thought the worst. Was she cancelling?

“Camille, good morning.”

_“Do you have a lot of walking planned for today?”_

“Is that a problem?”

_“Don’t answer a question with a question!”_

“Yes, a lot of today will be spent walking and standing. Why do you need to know that?”

_“I have these really cute boots, but I haven’t worn them much and I don’t know how they’ll be for walking. And it makes a difference to what outfit I wear, so I had to ask now instead of waiting until you get here.”_

Richard smiled. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who was a bit nervous about today.

“Wear shoes that are comfortable for walking.”

_“Okay, see you soon!”_

-o-o-o-o-

Camille opened the door and was surprised at what she saw. Richard was not wearing a tie!

“Look at you!” she said. “No tie, and Sandra isn’t here.”

“I can be casual without being ordered to. You look lovely. And those look like good shoes for walking.”

“So I pass inspection?” she asked, picking up her coat.

“Absolutely,” Richard took Camille’s coat and helped her into it. 

They walked toward the river, and Camille started to guess about the surprise. 

“A boat ride? Isn’t it cold for that?”

“Not a boat ride.”

“Oh. I hope it isn’t the Clink Museum. I’ve gone there already on my own.”

“Good Lord, no!” Richard grimaced, “Strictly for tourists. And I have no interest in a busman’s holiday.”

“So we aren’t taking a bus?”

“No, we’re walking.”

“Then what’s a busman’s holiday?”

“A holiday that’s related to what you do for work. Like a bus driver taking a bus trip. Or the two of us going to the Clink Museum.”

They turned toward the Globe Theatre.

“Isn’t it too early in the day for a performance?” Camille asked.

“Not going to the Globe.”

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere. You’re just going to walk me around and laugh at my guesses.”

“No,” said Richard as they reached the river and turned to walk along the Jubilee Walkway. “First, we’re going to see Maman.”

“What do you mean? Maman is on Saint Marie.”

“Here she is!” Richard pointed to a metal spider almost 10 meters high.

“Ugh! I HATE spiders! This isn’t funny. Maman is not a spider.”

“It’s the name of the sculpture. See, she’s carrying her eggs. Taking care of them like a good mother. The sculptor is famous for her spiders.” Seeing Camille shiver, Richard said, “Come on, let’s go inside and see Maman’s original home.”

Richard led Camille into the huge building. As they walked down the ramp at the entrance, Camille gasped, “What a huge space!”

“It was the turbine hall of a power plant. Now it’s the Tate Modern.”

“Modern art?”

“Yes. The Turbine Hall is used for large installations. Maman was in here for a while. The rest of the building is galleries. There’s a Matisse exhibition I thought you might like.” 

As they walked toward the exhibition, Camille noticed a queue. “Richard, isn’t that the queue?”

“Yes, but we don’t have to queue. Come on.” He led her to the head of the queue and held out a card. The museum guard looked at it and waved them in. As they walked into the exhibit, Richard said, “Members get to jump the queue.”

Camille read the introduction and sighed. “How sad his later life was—too ill to paint. I knew Matisse did collages, but I never knew why.”

“Clever, really,” said Richard. “Look at how he would move the elements around until he got what he wanted. Easier than making sketches. Rather like computer assisted design.”

“Drag and drop. If he were alive today, I wonder if he’d use a computer as a way to do his art.”

They made their way through the exhibit. Camille stood back and looked at each piece. Richard read all the labels. 

“Oh!” Camille stopped in front of two large panels. “These are different, tan and white instead of bright primary colors. There’s a warmth about these, almost as if they were quilts that I could wrap around myself.”

“It all reminds me of something, but I can’t quite figure out what.”

“You’ve probably seen some of these before. Maybe photographs of them in a magazine article or a book?”

“Not a specific piece. It’s the whole process of making shapes and sticking them up on a wall. It’s going to drive me crazy until I think of it.”

Camille shrugged and moved on through the exhibit. She turned when Richard stopped suddenly in front of a large piece called “The Snail.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Colorforms!” Seeing her confused look, Richard added, “Sorry, did you not have them? They’re pieces of vinyl that you can stick in place and them lift—”

“I know what they are. I had Barbie Colorforms.”

“No, I mean the originals. They weren’t dolls and dresses. They were just shapes to be used to make a design. The art teacher at school loved to have us work with them. Mr. Clay would say ‘Just make something!’ Then we’d draw what we’d made so that we would have a record of them for our portfolios. And then we’d undo our creations and put the shapes back on their pages.”

“Mr. Clay? You had an art teacher called Mr. Clay?”

“Yeah, I suppose it was his destiny to be an artist.”

“Did you like art class?”

“It was all right. He tried very hard to give us unusual projects, so it wasn’t simply draw a picture of something or other each week. I have to say, he helped develop my eye for detail.”

“So you were becoming a detective even then?”

“No, that came later. But he would show us a picture of a painting and ask us what we saw and why we thought the artist composed the work as he did.”

Camille smiled as she imagined a ten-year-old Richard examining a picture for meaning the way he stared at his white board. 

“What?” 

“I’m imagining you as a schoolboy.”

Richard shuddered, “Please don’t. Come on, this next installation recreates an entire room.”

“Ohhh, it’s like being in the sea!” Camille exclaimed. She took a photo with her mobile. “I have to send this to my friend Aimee. When we were little, we loved to go swimming, but we would never go far from shore in case a scary sea creature would grab us.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning her.”

“She isn’t on Saint Marie much. She’s trying to make a career as a singer so she travels a lot. We stay in touch by email and texts.” Camille dragged Richard back to “The Snail,” and took a selfie of the two of them with the painting in the background.

“Camille, don’t do that! I hate it when people take selfies. Look at me, I’m in this fantastic place and you’re not.”

“Oh, shush. I want to commemorate our first—um, museum trip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a Matisse exhibition at Tate Modern. I saw it at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and when I saw it was done in conjunction with the Tate, I knew I had to work it into a story. This article is about the NYC version. http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2015/02/06/arts/a-walk-through-the-gallery-henri-matisse-the-cut-outs-at-the-museum-of-modern-art-in-new-york.html?_r=0


	18. Chapter 18

After they left the Matisse exhibition, they made their way up to floor 6, where Richard had made a reservation for lunch in the museum’s restaurant. 

“Oh! What a gorgeous view!” Camille exclaimed when they were shown to a window table. “Is this table another member benefit?”

“No, just good luck.”

“The dome, that’s Saint Paul’s, isn’t it?” Camille pointed across the river.

“Yes, Christopher Wren’s masterpiece. Have you been?”

“No. It’s on my list of places to see. I took a bus tour when I first got here, and I did get off to see Trafalgar Square and Covent Garden. I went to Harrods’s, of course, and Piccadilly Circus and the shops along Regent Street. I’ve done some exploring of neighborhoods. I found some Caribbean restaurants for when I need a taste of home. But mostly, I go to work and spend weekends doing the shopping, cleaning the flat, doing laundry. I don’t have many days out like this. Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve seen my surprise. Now will you tell me about your surprise?”

“The past few days, Anderson has been out. He’s gone to Manchester again. And since we wrapped up the strangling cases, I thought my stock was about as high as it would be. So I talked to the Gov and asked for a transfer.”

“Did you get it?”

“I don’t know. I filled out the paperwork and asked him to sign off on it. I played some of Anderson’s best moments for him.”

“That was a risk.”

“I know. He definitely saw it as a threat, but I assured him I don’t want to play it for anyone else. I had talked to Sandra about it and she coached me on how to approach him. And I had moral support from Aimee. She basically told me to threaten to quit. As a singer, she can quit and find a new gig. I don’t think she realizes the size of the Met. So I followed Sandra’s advice and went for a subtle approach.”

“Implied trade, sign the paperwork and HR won’t ever hear the recordings. Sounds like Sandra’s devious mind. Well played, Camille. I hope you get what you want.” Richard held up his glass and Camille lifted hers to clink against his. “Here’s to you getting out of Southwark.”

-o-o-o-o-

After lunch, Camille explored the shop, hoping to find a postcard to send to her mother. While Richard browsed through the books, Camille looked at items from the Matisse collection. She was tempted by a tie in a Matisse design, but knew that Richard would never wear something so bright. She settled on a mug for Richard and decided to splurge a scarf in the “Sheaf” design for herself. She completed her purchase and saw that Richard was still in the book section.

“Have you found anything you want?” she asked.

“No, just waiting for you.”

“All done,” she held up the bag. “Um, would you mind terribly if we didn’t go back up to the galleries? I’ve enjoyed the museum, but it’s sunny, and I’d like to spend some time outdoors.”

“Of course, if you like. I can come back any time. Another nice part of being a member. You don’t have to feel that a visit is a commitment of an entire day.” Secretly, Richard was relieved. The Matisse works had been interesting, but much of what the Tate Modern housed was rubbish in his opinion. Certainly not as good as Tate Britain with its Constable landscapes and Stubbs horses.

-o-o-o-o-

They strolled along the river for a while, but as the sun dropped lower, they began to feel the cold. Camille suggested they return to her flat for some coffee or tea to warm up. 

At the flat, Camille said, “Would you like the tour of my grand accommodations? There’s my kitchen, and here’s my sitting room,” she pointed to an armchair. Turning slightly, she pointed to the bed, “And that’s my bedroom. All cleverly tucked into one space.”

“You skipped your office,” said Richard, pointing to the small desk.

“So I did,” Camille laughed. “Please have a seat in the living room while I make tea. I’m sorry it isn’t brighter in here. There should be more light fixtures, especially with so much grey in the room.”

“You must miss the brightness of Saint Marie.”

“I do. But this place is convenient to the station and not too expensive. And they would do a short lease, which a lot of places won’t.”

Camille handed Richard a cup of tea and set a plate of shortbread biscuits on the desk. She pulled out the desk chair and sat down.

“I’ll sit there, you take the armchair,” said Richard.

“No, no. You’re my guest. You sit in the living room. I’ll be fine in the office.”

“The tea is very nice, thank you. And shortbread! Are we anglicizing you a bit, do you think?”

“Perhaps just a bit. But I have to confess that I have croissants in the kitchen. And a mango, so I’m a combination of cultures.”

“That’s what makes you so interesting. I suppose the French will always win out, probably your mother’s influence. Speaking of your mother, did you find a postcard for her?”

“I wanted something from the Matisse exhibit, but there weren’t many. I wanted one of the ones that looked like undersea scenes, but I couldn’t find them. I ended up buying the one that reminded you of Colorforms.” 

“That one belongs to the Tate, so they have the right to reproduce it. Borrowing art usually doesn’t include right to use the image.”

“I also bought a scarf for myself,” Camille pulled the scarf out of the bag and then took out the mug. “And this is for you. To thank you for a special day. I looked for Colorforms, but this was as close as I could get.”

“Thank you. I’ll take it to work and show off how cultured I am.” 

“I’ve always thought you’re cultured. Certainly well educated. Although I have to admit I was a bit surprised that you have a membership at a modern art museum. Art yes, but _modern_?”

“It isn’t only the Modern. There’s also Tate Britain, with more traditional art. That’s the first Tate, over 100 years old. And now there are museums in other cities, too.”

“One of the things I loved about living in Paris was all the art museums. Today was a treat. I really enjoyed it.”

“So did I, much to my surprise.” Richard paused and then said, “I, um, well, to be honest, I’d never been to the Tate Modern. I chose this for today because I wanted to do something contemporary, something that wouldn’t make me seem so old.”

“Old? Richard, you aren’t old.”

“I’m older than you are. And stodgy, staid. Boring.”

“Oh, Richard, you aren’t boring.” Camille moved to sit on the arm of the chair. She gently stroked his cheek and said, “How can you think of yourself that way? That isn’t how I see you.”

“No, come to think of it. If I recall correctly, I’m rude, annoying—”

“Stop! I said those things when I didn’t know you. You can be rude, it’s true. But it’s because you’re so focused on a case that you forget proper manners. And you focus on the case because you _care_ so much about solving it and giving closure to the victim’s family. You try to hide it, Richard, but you care about people. You’re a good person, and you’re very special to me.” 

Camille leaned down and kissed Richard. He wrapped his arms around her to pull her close and she slid from the arm of the chair into his lap. When they broke for air, Camille smiled and kissed Richard’s neck, working her way up to his ear. She whispered, “Stay with me tonight.”

“I don’t think, um, that is, ah…”

“There’s no rule to worry about. We don’t work together, Richard.”

“Camille, what you feel for me isn’t real. You’re homesick and lonely. What you feel is gratitude for a shoulder to cry on. I’d be taking advantage of your unhappiness. And neither of us would like me very much if I did that.”

“You’re wrong, Richard, it’s so much more than gratitude.”

“It can’t last. You’re going to return to Saint Marie in a few months. I don’t think I could bear… that is, um, it would be awkward when you leave. Better not to start something that can only end badly.”

“But it’s what we both want.”

“It isn’t a good idea. I should go.”

“Please, Richard, just hold me.”

Against his better judgement, he wrapped his arms around Camille and held her close, wishing he’d never have to let her go. But he knew he had to, so after a while, he released her.

“Richard…”

“I have to be up early tomorrow morning to catch my train, so I need to go home now. Goodnight, Camille.” He put on his coat and left her flat. All the way home, he fought the urge to go back to her. 

Camille stared at the door, as if she could will him to return. He was probably right to leave. But a few months of happiness could be worth an unhappy ending. They’d become so close in some ways, and she wanted more. 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard was distracted on Sunday. When his mother asked what was wrong, he said he was working on a complicated case and it was on his mind. But the truth was that he was thinking about Camille and wondering if he should have stayed when she asked him to.

Richard had never paid much attention to his parents’ relationship, but that afternoon it struck him that they were best friends. They answered questions before they were asked, finished each other’s sentences. They were completely in tune with each other, a two-person support network. He could imagine his relationship with Camille growing into something like that. If only it were possible.

Sunday evening on the train back to London, Richard thought more about Camille. Was she clinging to him because she was homesick, or did she really care for him? And if he thought about it, would a few months of wanting each other and not acting on it really be better than a few wonderful months together followed by the inevitable painful separation? A few months. Most relationships he’d had in the past crashed and burned in that time, so it wouldn’t be a new experience. 

For once in your life, he told himself, just go for it. Don’t overthink. 

But, being Richard, all he could do was think about it. He fell asleep working out what he would say when he called Camille Monday. He hoped she would understand that he hadn’t rejected her. It was the situation, and his fear of being hurt.


End file.
